


Irreversible Marks

by vilarist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (!!!!), Canon Divergence, Drarry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Healthy gay relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mysterious Books, Pining, Sirius Lives, Slow Burn, Tea Drinking, Werewolf Draco, angst? is this what angst is? maybe, angsty gay hallway conversations, anti-dumbledore propaganda, au where draco is punished by voldemort & co for saving sirius black at the end of book 5, did i mention snape is the worst, dumbledore is the only straight character in the harry potter franchise, dumbledore sucks, essentially the half blood prince if jk rowling wasnt a bigot and a coward, mysterious train station encounters, oh also snape can die, snape also sucks, sorry in advance i havent written fanfiction in literal years, this is a (almost entirely) kreacher free zone, this is gay. there will be homosexuals, touch starved, wacky hijinks, werewolf but this isn't one of those sexy werewolf stories i promise, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27108556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vilarist/pseuds/vilarist
Summary: In the spring of 1996, Draco Malfoy makes the biggest mistake of his life, sacrificing everything to pull Sirius Black away from certain death in the Department of Mysteries. The Dark Lord does not take kindly to mistakes- the teeth of Fenrir Greyback serve only to drive this message home.Now, Draco finds himself abandoned, vulnerable, utterly alone with a brand new curse: forced to turn what remains of his trust towards the very group of traitors he lost everything to save- and a particularly annoying,  eavesdropping, dark-haired school rival.Takes place over the span of the Half Blood Prince, but with more pining, Draco character development, and werewolf-ness.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 75
Kudos: 372





	1. Blood Runs Thicker Than Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is thrown to the wolf. Harry waits and wonders.

It hurt, of course.

It hurt badly; head struck with a metal bat badly, body-hitting-the-ground-from-a-mile-high-cliff badly. It hurt all the more because of his mother clutching his hand as though she was the one sentenced to this miserable fate rather than him. Greyback’s hot breath on his wrist, radial veins blue and compressed. Delayed pain as the teeth sank into his skin. His blood poured like water from a sieve.

It hurt more, of course, because Draco knew he deserved no less than what he was being given. This may have been a cruel punishment, but it was a righteous one nonetheless. Draco was no longer the whining child he had been just a few years ago. He'd made a mistake. He was facing the consequences. And he would not cry about it. Well, perhaps crying was inevitable. Tears seemed to slip out anyway, through closed eyes, and they burned almost as much as the sinking of blunt teeth into his flesh. It hurt like hell. But it was justice.

His arm twisted in resistance as Fenrir Greyback pulled his mouth away. The pulling was worse than the breaking of the skin. Pulling of the arrow from the quiver. Pulling of the knife from the stomach.

After breaking away, Greyback wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. There was blood scraped up under his lips. Congealed under the gums of a toothy grin. He grabbed Draco by the collar with both his blood-streaked hands, forcing the boy to stumble upright as he was pulled to a standing position by the fabric of his starched white shirt. Draco's left sleeve bloomed with red. As he stood, his mother’s sweat-slicked hand slipped from his grasp. She made a move to reach for him again but Greyback shouldered her roughly away, bringing Draco up to eye level with that same sickening grin. He said nothing, just stared. Then his eyes widened at the sudden sound of rapping- a metal cane striking the floor- and Draco was dropped limply to the ground. He clutched his arm and stared at nothing. Blood smeared, patchy, onto the dusty linoleum tiles. He saw Greyback's silhouette scramble out of the room in his peripherals- and then that brief glimpse of motion was replaced with the shape of his father standing over him.

Lucius Malfoy would never have dreamed of kneeling down to Draco’s level. Instead he spoke down the bridge of his own nose, staring like ice at the sack of bones below him. In his life, Draco could not recall a moment where he had been a personal target of his father's hatred as he was in this moment. So he continued to look downwards, hands pressed flat, one finger tracing a spiral in the fur-like layer of dust and detritus that coated the basement floor. He felt queasy, sour, sick all the way down to every cell of blood. The indignity before his own father was enough to will Draco to try to stand back up but- no, far too soon- his vision reeled, and he fell grasping at the foot of Lucius’ robes, cashmere and silk running like water between his bloodstained fingers.

“The Dark Lord does not forgive mistakes such as yours, Draco.”

It was the stiff articulation of a man who was relaying a message written by a higher-up. More likely than not Voldemort himself had chastised Lucius with those same words, and only now had they reached the deserving party. Draco, gathering what strength he had, released his father's robes and sat backwards on stiff, aching heels that resisted the movement with a jolt of pain but were no match for the blood that still flowed from his left arm. He clutched his right hand over the torn cloth of his shirt that surrounded the wound. Head and heart began to weakly pound with the pressure of blood loss.

He didn't close his eyes because he knew what he would see. His mistake was irreparable, irredeemable, unable to be erased. And it was burned into the back of his mind so harshly that every pulse of the artery reminded him of what he had done. The events progressed as follows- one after another like knives on a rack:

1\. With the crack of a single spell, Draco saw the blood traitor begin to slip through the veil at the Department of Mysteries. Slow like simmering water.

2\. Draco had been frozen in place, Lucius' arm on his shoulder. The closest to a gesture of pride that he'd ever expected to receive. For a brief moment, Draco had laughed without knowing why. It caught halfway out of his mouth, the way one laughs so that one doesn’t begin to sob. 

3\. Harry Potter, blocked halfway across the room by debris, had screamed.

The events that followed the scream were fuzzy, unable to be numbered so precisely like the moments before. Draco only perceived it in fragments. He’d broken out of his father's grasp and run towards the veil. Rubble from the ministry ceiling flying up under his feet. It had come as some surprise at the time, but Father and Lestrange had let him run without resistance. He'd proven his allegiance to Voldemort thus far, and most likely they'd expected him to keep Potter at bay, whose focus was torn between the shifting veil and Sirius Black's assailant.

Further static. But Draco remembered the tactile- his arms wrapping around Sirius Black’s legs, clutching at his shoes, the stiff fabric of his jeans, clothes and skin cold already from the touch of the Other Side. And then the pulling relented, and Sirius was out of the veil, slumped to the ground, _algor mortis_ but somehow still breathing. Somehow blinking vacantly up at the ceiling. And Draco had stumbled backwards in confusion at what he’d just done. A mind that was unused to having to account for mistakes such as these. Looked up to see Harry Potter staring wide-eyed at him, and then Potter had pushed him aside, not by magic but with the palms of his hands, and Draco still could feel the impact on his collarbone if he tried hard enough to remember. He could still see Potter crouched over his godfather. Checking for vacancy in his blinking eyes. Ensuring that he was still there.

_Why had Draco done it? There was no true answer._

He'd fallen backwards into Narcissa’s open arms, and that was the extent of his memories from the Ministry's dark rooms, the chaos of that night. When he next awoke it was daytime -late golden afternoon- and he’d gone in a single instant from _dearest_ _son Draco_ to _traitorous mistake,_ and nothing would ever be the same, as long as werewolf blood pulsed in his veins and his father looked at him with hatred thicker than ice.

Lucius described vague plans for Draco, although the boy could not bring his mind to focus clearly on any of the words that were being spoken at him. They were plans that involved espionage and killing and endless favors to the Dark Lord before even a semblance of trust could be regained. Over and over again, Lucius spoke of how Draco’s punishment was deserved, as though Draco didn’t already _(_ _eternally!)_ know. All the while his arm bled out onto the floor, shirt sleeve dug roughly into the wound. And _mistake,_ Lucius said, _mistake,_ over and over, just in case Draco forgot. It was the only thing he could seem to remember. Only thing he felt he could possibly be.

“-no son of mine anymore,” Lucius finished, and it was over as soon as it had started. He turned to the door, grasping Narcissa's arm before she could attempt to offer comfort to her trembling son. She tried to catch Draco's gaze, at least, but Lucius spoke something quiet and her face slid back to the door and she followed him out without resistance, leaving Draco Malfoy in the dark and entirely alone. Alone was something that he’d never truly been in his entire life.

…

The nightmares had no reason to be this bad. At least, this was what Harry told himself every time he awoke shaking and freezing cold in the middle of the night.

It had been seven in the morning for a long time now, sun faint on the pale horizon, and Harry was sitting on a swing set at a park several blocks down from Privet Drive. The sky was dark when he'd woken up that morning, a light morning wind pushing away through the open window at the thin red curtains in his bedroom. He’d left the house without really thinking, not even bothering to change out of his pajamas, and he'd been at the park for an hour and a half. Sat on the swings, rocking slowly and absently. The cold morning mist had begun to stop stinging his nose every time he took a breath. It was distracting work, sitting there, watching the sun swell into the sky and slowly drown out the cover of night. 

In his dreams, Sirius Black was dead. Usually Harry pictured him framed by the veil, blue and pale and drifting wide-eyed into no-man's land. Hands grasping out for help but every time Harry reached out to help him, they passed straight through, leaving cold, ghostly scars at the point of entry. Sometimes, less occasionally, Draco Malfoy appeared in Harry's sleep as well. Instead of grappling Sirius away from the clutches of death, like he inexplicably had in real life, Harry would watch, frozen in place, as Malfoy's grin grew wider, inhumanly wider, while he pushed Sirius in. On particularly restless nights, Malfoy would jump in after Sirius, smile unbreaking as Harry watched his face vanish through the shifting blue veil, still unable to move.

On the best of nights, Harry would wake with a jolt and before quickly recognizing his surroundings and returning to sleep. On the worst nights, he was searing hot and unable to breathe, sometimes even having fallen to his bedroom floor. On nights like these, he’d reread Sirius’ letters (stashed under his mattress) just to remember where he was. Who he was.

He’d taken to going for long walks during the day. The Dursleys rarely punished him for his absence, just criticized it whenever he returned too early and accidentally bothered them in the living room while they were trying to watch the news. They’d been quieter recently, less openly cruel. Maybe they could sense that Harry was troubled by something far more vast than what they could do to hurt him. Even Dudley had stopped trying to mess with Harry for the most part. Didn’t follow him around anymore, at least.

The world was beginning to warm up and Harry found himself energized enough to consider standing up off the swing set. Perhaps he could slip back in for a few minutes to collect his box of letters, and then sneak out before the Dursleys woke up. The days leading up to his birthday were somehow more punishing than the rest of the summer combined. All he wanted was to spend it at Grimmauld Place, to stay where he knew Sirius was safe and alive within his line of sight, to be able to talk, _really talk,_ with Hermione and the Weasleys and the rest of the Order.

This would not have been so difficult, if not for Dumbledore's continued, unexplained insistence that Harry return to his Uncle and Aunt's every summer. The old man had a clutch on Harry's life- it was impossible to deny. _"_ _God works in mysterious_ _ways,"_ Aunt Petunia used to say. Usually while blaming him Harry some mess that Dudley was the real one responsible for.

Speaking of Dumbledore, there’d been nothing but radio silence from him all summer. It was disconcerting. Word from nearly everyone else, but according to the Order, Dumbledore had been all but MIA since the events that had occurred in the Ministry of Magic several months prior.

Sirius’ letters to Harry had referred to the man more frequently than anybody else's. He was unsubtle about his disdain for Dumbledore’s ambiguous statements and ‘necessary sacrifices’ and the way he kept even his most trusting allies in the dark. _You don’t deserve this,_ Sirius had said more than once in a particular letter, _and he has no right to treat you like some kind of soldier,_ and then, as though realizing he’d spoken too ill of Dumbledore for too long, _much love from Remus and I, hope to see you soon, cauldron cakes enclosed in case the Dursleys are starving you, write us back as soon as possible, etc. etc. etc._

It was nice to read, sure, but Harry knew he didn’t have a choice.

Harry trusted Dumbledore. There was no way not to. He despised the isolation, but Dumbledore was not a man known for failure as long as Harry had been in contact with him. He’d never been wrong in the past, although whenever Sirius’ near-death returned to his mind his stomach twisted awfully again.

Had Sirius been meant to be a necessary sacrifice?

Some things were too difficult and horrible to think about. Harry understood Sirius' distrust- even felt the distrust himself when he reread old letters. The two of them were in the same situation, after all- Harry stuck with the Dursleys, Sirius alone at Grimmauld place. Both inclined towards impatience. But Dumbledore's plans had always required patience, and when had the man failed to bring about good things for the both of them, and the rest of the Order? Of course, Harry could not provide an immediate example of said Good Things, but he knew they had to exist. Probably. The dilemma wasn't worth his trouble.

So he stood up, empty swing rocking backwards behind him, and walked, not towards Privet Drive but in the other direction, as far away as he could go until his legs felt like they’d go numb and give out entirely. Pretending in his mind that he was sitting in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place right now, laughing with his friends, and with Sirius and feeling as though he belonged. Everyone he loved alive, well, and together.

The pale moon glowed hazy and round in the blue morning sky. Less than a few days until it was nearly full.


	2. A Short Taste of Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry receives a mysterious letter. Draco overhears many things, none of them good.

They’d never dream of admitting it to any of their many acquaintances, but Number Four Privet Drive had a major spider problem.

Their troubles weren't limited to the cupboard under the stairs. The little bastards seemed to show up everywhere (to the dismay of the Dursleys, a family notoriously proud of their ability to keep things entirely clean and ordinary). The spiders would spin their stringy little webs with little regard for meaningless things like status- Petunia Dursley fought off cobwebs on a daily basis, and Harry was accustomed, at this point, to the occasional howl of terror that would indicate that a leggy harvestman had pushed its way out of the dusty vents of Dudley’s computer.

All this in mind, it was with very little surprise that Harry awoke, mid-July, to a cellar spider crawling softly across his face. Blinking away sleep and returning to his senses from the end periphery of his latest nightmare, Harry swore and swatted the creature away. He sat up to see Hedwig crouched next to his pillow, eyes like saucers and looking altogether very satisfied with herself. Unable to muster much annoyance for long, Harry scratched her on the head (in exchange for an appreciative hoot) and began to lay back down to fall back asleep. He'd almost drifted off again when a scrap of paper poking at the edge of his cheek made him realize that the spider had not been Hedwig’s only delivery. 

A thin slip of paper in an grey envelope that was unmarked except for Harry’s address. Harry slipped out of bed and walked to his desk, where he unfolded the paper cautiously. He’d just written Sirius back, and was not expecting a response for another few days. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd received a charmed letter with undesirable contents from a mysterious source- But as soon as he caught sight of the note scrawled on the paper, an entire summer’s worth of doubts vanished in a single instant. 

So Dumbledore hadn’t gone missing after all, because he was here, _right here in this letter_ if the familiar silver, gaudy handwriting was any indication. And he was coming in less than twenty-four hours to escort Harry to Grimmauld Place for the rest of the summer. Everything Sirius had said about Dumbledore had to be baseless suspicion, it must have been, because Harry was reading these words, some sense of a promise that he was not alone after all. 

Infinitely more importantly, he’d be falling asleep in the same house as Sirius and Remus and Ron and Hermione and all the rest come tomorrow morning. The rush of excitement made him restless, and he wanted to leave this instant- jump out the window and run the whole way there. Instead, he rolled over, screamed excitedly into his pillow for a brief moment, then pushed away the covers to get packing.

A patch of morning sunlight shone onto Harry’s bed as he laid out his belongings, wizarding supplies that had gone untouched nearly the entire summer. Dust motes rose from the opening of the untouched wardrobe full of Hogwarts robes, and Hedwig ruffled her feathers, flying to perch on top of her cage in reaction to the sudden disturbance. Harry got slightly too overeager, and his frantic shuffling to pack was interrupted by the rapping of a broom handle pounding under the floorboards.

“Quiet up there!” Vernon Dursley’s voice came muffled from the ground floor below Harry’s feet. “Some of us are trying to sleep in for once!”

Harry quickly adopted a familiar, lighter step to avoid further disturbing his relatives, but within his excitement he could not help stomping excitedly a few times in anticipation of what was soon to be.

…

Nobody entered Draco’s room for three entire days, and he did not make an attempt to leave. He sat on the bed, stared blankly at the lunar calendar on his wall, counted the minutes, and listened to the fragments of words that drifted through the wall when his parents were too careless to speak out of earshot.

_“...risked our whole family, and for who?”_

Lucius’ voice. The impact of what Draco had done was no surprise. One impulsive moment of weakness, of pity, and he’d put the lives of his entire family at immense risk of Voldemort’s wrath. Lucius had spent years trying to teach him to keep his head cool, to stay calm and quiet under pressure. Compassion was weakness, most importantly when compared to victory.

_“Dark Lord...most lenient punishment possible, but if...”_

Narcissa. Sounding exhausted and strained. Draco was lucky that himself and his family weren’t dead right now. The scar on his arm was still tender and slightly green. He’d spent hours over the porcelain sink scrubbing helplessly at every itching point where Fenrir Greyback’s face had made contact with his arm.

_“...next full moon... enormous mistake...”_

Narcissa’s voice again, and he could hear her regret even through the thin manor walls. The breeze pushed gently in through the open window, rustling his shirt and threatening to turn the pages of the calendar on his lap. _Tuesday, July 30th, 1996._ The date was circled in black ink on the calendar, and in a rare moment of absentminded denial, Draco had scribbled the shape of a moon in the center of the calendar square. A constant reminder that he had no idea what to expect.

His blood felt all wrong. How could he even live an entire life feeling this way?

The words got quiet for several minutes. Then, a sentence in his father’s voice that made Draco’s stomach drop in a way he hadn’t thought possible before:

_“...send him away? To where, exactly, Narcissa?”_

His own mother wanted him gone. 

After what he had done, it was no surprise that Lucius would surely want him out of his life. But Narcissa? His own mother? It was always difficult to be certain in the Malfoy family.

But Draco had been convinced, at least partially, that his mother loved him.

_“...foolish. To believe he would have the mercy not to slaughter all of us in an instant.”_

Narcissa speaking once more, voice hushed. Draco knew this already, though sometimes the thought was too much to handle. At any moment Voldemort could decide that the forced turning was too small of a punishment for the traitorous actions he had cemented into the family name. He could kill Draco and his family, ripping away the only people who may have cared for him, all over a single saved life of an estranged cousin he didn’t even really know. All over the visceral, ridiculous impulse to _protect_ that was initiated over a single shout of horror. From _Potter,_ no less. He wondered if the boy was even entirely aware of how much his actions, his foolish ‘moral superiority’, had ruined Draco’s life.

After that, there was only silence from down the hall. Draco got the impression that his parents had gone to bed. Outside, the night was clear. He could not see the moon from his window’s view, but its light illuminated the flower beds of white and red chrysanthemums in the garden below.

If he stayed now, there was no telling what would happen to his family.

…

The flower beds cushioned his fall, although the plants were irreparably crushed where he had (as gently as possibly) tossed his trunk out the window. Draco brushed chrysanthemum petals off his lapel, hoisting the trunk with his good arm and holding the arm with the bite close to his chest.

He crept out of the garden and climbed over the fence onto the street below, hoping in equal parts that 1. he was making the correct choice and 2. that his family would not notice his absence for several days at the very least.

He’d taken only the necessities. The nearly full moon was visible now, too-bright in a too-dark sky. His arm pulsed. Draco walked several blocks until his home was entirely out of sight, then flagged down a Muggle taxi.

It was a long ride to King’s Cross station, but then again, Draco Malfoy had a lot on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit. the rush of serotonin i receive seeing genuine, actual comments and kudos and such at the bottom of my shitty fic... this is insane! part of me can't believe that at least a few people are actually reading and enjoying this, but i am having so much fun writing and i have numerous plans for the future of this fic ;)
> 
> anyway, when i joked about the fic being a slow burn in the tags, i suppose i meant it more than i realized at the time haha... but i promise that draco and harry will actually meet and interact sometime soon!
> 
> until next time... thank you for all the love!


	3. Between the Home and the Holding Cell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius waits. Draco is faced with a familiar stranger and another important decision.

_I’ll be home before you can even tell I’m gone._

That’s what Remus’ note said, and it burned a little bit more every time Sirius reread it, even though he knew it was true.

Some errand for Dumbledore, always some pointless task, vaguely explained ‘scouting’ and ‘research’ and of course Remus Lupin always took it into stride because he was a better person than Sirius could ever hope to be. Every departure was always “don’t worry yourself,” and and a more personal _"Merlin,_ your hands are cold, Padfoot, I’d make you some tea if I had the time,” and always _back soon, back soon, back soon,_ as though saying it would make him come back any sooner then he ever did.

Sirius alone, bed empty, house cold. It was usually nights like these when he’d think to write to Harry, even if he hadn’t gotten a response yet, even though Remus always joked that he was acting overbearing. But hell, the kid was all alone out there, and so was Sirius, at least while Remus was away. The least they could do was rely on each other.

Sirius was used to sleeping alone. After years in Azakaban, it almost felt strange when Remus stayed over, shared his bed the way they used to in the Gryffindor dorms as children. To be able to turn over in the dark and watch him breathe. To have a warm hand so nearby, within reach, within the scope of physical touch. It was unfamiliar. It was something he’d almost convinced himself he didn’t deserve to have.

The moon was nearly full. Sirius kept track of such things almost more closely than Remus did. Knew when to start preparing. Knew when Remus needed help the most. A need to compensate for his thirteen years of absence. But now Lupin was away near-constantly, and Sirius was beginning to _hate_ Dumbledore for everything he’d put them through, and Sirius was stuck at home. Cold bed. Cold hands. Kreacher stalking around in the shadows, looking at him with some sort of quiet disgust that had been there before but was now amplified tenfold. Feeling like maybe he really had died back in April. Was that so difficult to believe?

The words weren’t coming. He didn’t know what he could write to Harry that the both of them didn’t already know. Set aside the parchment and promised himself to return to it. 

Remus was always telling him to get more sleep, but Sirius was sick of being told what to do. He turned on the kitchen sink just slightly (pipes rattling), and watched the water drop until his legs began to ache and his head felt sick and dizzy. No water heater at 12 Grimmauld Place. A life destined for the freezing cold.

...

Did the Hogwarts Express run all year round? It was a question Draco was about to discover the answer to.

The night was growing old, and city traffic began to dissipate as time went on and the sky grew darker. The station was less rushed than Draco was used to, although by no means empty. He paid the taxi driver, stepped out into the cold air, and took intense care not to look any strangers in the eyes.

He felt out of place under the familiar glass panels of the station, consciously tugging his left sleeve down as far as it would go. He didn’t bother with a trolley, just dragged himself and his luggage to the brick entrance to Platform 9¾. Another nagging question. Was the platform even available this time of year? Running face-first into a wall would be humiliating any time of day, but without the heavy crowds of King’s Cross at rush hour, he’d be bringing much more unwanted attention to himself than any other time of year.

He clutched his trunk, uncertain of what to do. He’d never run away from home before, and was unaccustomed to the practice. But Hogwarts was his only option- he’d take the train alone, locate Professor Snape, the final person he could even begin to trust. Make him brew up whatever acclaimed Werewolf Cure he could, and then put the whole situation behind him and try to make a life in a world without his mother and father.

It seemed this entire endeavor was going to be much more difficult than Draco had anticipated as he leapt out his window into the flowerbed.

It occurred to Draco that he’d been staring at the platform entrance for far longer than any normal person should be. He took a deep breath and made his choice, setting one foot behind him and holding his breath in preparation to run towards the platform entrance, the way he would if it was September and everything in the world was normal. There was, after all, nowhere else for him to go.

“Draco?”

The sound of Draco’s own name made his heart leap. He stopped abruptly in his tracks, tripping over his own feet and skidding to a halt, nearly falling backwards over his trunk. Scrabbling to gain his composure, he glanced around frantically for the source of the voice. _Family? Death Eater? Someone here to kill me?_

Grasping his trunk for balance and blinking away through an anxious haze, it took several moments for him to locate who’d said his name. Several more seconds of focus revealed a figure breaking away from the dissipating crowd in the station- an unfamiliar man wearing threadbare muggle clothes with a robe draped haphazardly over his shoulders. Draco squinted as he approached, uncertain of who he was looking at even as the man drew closer.

“What are you _doing_ here, Draco?”

Sudden clarity. Draco fell backwards in realization that he was being approached by one Remus Lupin, who was not only his old professor, but a man he had personally encountered… fought, even, at the Ministry of Magic last spring. And on top of that…

Draco clutched the aching scar on his left arm even harder and pulled himself back to his feet. He had no business on this man. No business with some… well, his brain wasn’t producing an appropriate pejorative at the moment. But the man was a _werewolf,_ Merlin’s sake. That was enough of an insult already.

But Remus Lupin, embarrassingly, horrifyingly, smiled as he approached, extended a hand to help Draco to his feet (which he rejected, of course, clambering back to a standing position of his own accord). What was he playing at? Draco’s sort had tried to kill him not five months prior. 

“The express doesn’t run during the summer,” Lupin said, walking right up and knocking on platform 9’s sturdy brick wall revealing that the magical gateway was, in fact, tightly shut. “But more importantly, why are you-”

“Don’t! Don't- talk to me! You-”

The time constraint was too intense. Draco flailed for a proper biting insult, but his whole brain was occupied in telling him to _get away._ If he couldn’t get to Hogwarts, and couldn’t go home, then he’d leave the country. Fake his own death or something, battle things out on his own until it was safe to return. Practically anything was preferable to accepting the false sympathy of this pathetic man.

He was too hasty. Struggling to gather his things and speed-walk away from the situation as fast as possible, he lost grip of his left sleeve and it slipped up his arm. Only for a split second, but Lupin, who had been watching him wordlessly, noticed instantly- eyes widening in realization. He took a step forward, and Draco took a step away.

“Greyback.”

That was all Lupin said. Barely even audible, drowned slightly out with the monotone of the King’s Cross intercom. But Draco heard, and it was all he needed to hear. He shut his eyes and turned around to leave, trying to clear his head, clear his vision, trying not to show on his face how damn close he was to breaking down. How _dare_ he say it like that? He had no right to make inferences, no right to act as though he wanted to help. As though he had any idea what Draco would have to face, were he to go home now.

The small number of people still passing through King’s Cross station had almost entirely dissipated by this point. Remus Lupin did not try to stop Draco Malfoy from leaving. But he did speak, one more time, and it was, once again, enough.

“You should know I’m in contact with Professor Snape. If you…”

A short pause when he saw that Draco had halted in his steps once again, still disdainful but immediately more receptive to what Lupin had to say.

“If you were willing, I’d be happy to take you to meet with him.”

Cornered again. But go home and there was no predicting what would happen. He thought of his mother. He hoped she thought he was dead. Somehow it made everything easier.

Turned, nodded, and tried once again to ignore the fact that everything he'd ever known was about to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always for all the comments and love! trying to update as fast as possible- hopefully to the extent of posting another chapter by tonight.


	4. Grasp of Kindness in the Old House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco becomes acquainted with two of the three permanent residents of 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry Potter is utilized for Ulterior Motives.
> 
> warnings: identity crisis, dumbledore's cryptic antics

“Some Muggle townhouse?” Draco asked, clutching at his elbow and making no attempt to disguise his skepticism. 

The two had walked the whole way there from King’s Cross- “was headed home anyway,” Lupin had said over his shoulder while Draco lagged behind several meters, trying very hard to act like he didn’t care what the man had to say to him. And indeed, Lupin was wearing a small travelling satchel- had the looks of the sort of bag that was enchanted to be larger on the inside. But it was all very unimportant, Draco told himself. His old professor was simply the necessary middle man for his contact with Professor Snape- and he knew that once Snape knew what had happened, he would help, would protect him from everything that had happened in the past week.

Well, Lupin had been twenty steps ahead of him the whole walk there- some bitter combination of his eagerness to get return and Draco’s reluctance to appear associated with the man. And yet Lupin had insisted on walking, saying something about the use of magical transportation being traced. Seemingly a fact that Lupin was not willing to ignore, even for the sake of eagerness. Upon approaching the house, Lupin had taken first initiative and stepped eagerly through the thin, spiked gate while Draco stood back and watched. 

Draco didn’t even have time to register whatever charm Lupin had spoken that made 12 Grimmauld Place emerge, stone brick and severe and looking nearly alive- sort of a muscular house, pushing its way out between houses eleven and thirteen. Draco didn’t give himself much time to stare in shock. Wasn’t the first time he’d seen a spell like this in action. Malfoy Manor itself had a similar disguise charm on the exterior, albeit slightly more lacking in theatrics. Lupin wasted no time making his way to the newly emerged front door, knocking several times before pushing it open slightly. He beckoned Draco (who was still standing at the end of the front steps) to follow.

_ “Don’t speak until we reach the kitchen,”  _ he hissed behind him as Draco cautiously stepped in. He wondered if Snape had been alerted of his arrival and was already waiting somewhere in the house.  _ "And mind the leg.” _

This cryptic statement made itself clear once Draco was inside, nearly stumbling over the house’s grotesquely leg-shaped umbrella stand- was it real? He almost knocked it over again once more while lugging his trunk through the door, but Lupin caught it before it could clatter to the floor and urged Draco to move forward into the house while he steadied the odd furniture piece. Draco complied, silently eyeing the thick curtains lining the wall by the front entrance. Odd choice in decoration, but he grudgingly reminded himself he was in very little place to judge. 

He was preoccupied by moving his suitcase through the rather cramped front hall and dining room that he did not, at first, notice Sirius Black standing over the kitchen stove. His double take revealed his presence, and they stared wide-eyed at each other for several moments- Sirius losing grip of the tea bag he’d been tearing open over the counter, setting down the mug in some effort to be casual.

And then his gaze drifted over Draco’s shoulder, and something in his eyes softened momentarily from the shock that had been there before and Draco was left standing stiffly by the kitchen counter with his suitcase, watching Sirius Black and Remus Lupin embrace in the dining room. Hands clenched claw-like to the back of each other’s shirts like they’d been apart for a million years. 

Seeing the two men together, and with such little restraint, was too much for Draco to deliberate, pick apart, try to comprehend. He wasn’t ready. It uncovered too much that he’d tried his very hardest not to think about since his very first years at Hogwarts. He’d always set such thoughts aside. After all, (and Lucius Malfoy came to mind in this moment, tall and imposing, fingers curled around a serpentine ring) emotion was secondary to success. Always drawing up some comparison,  _ Blaise Zabini,  _ or  _ that ridiculous Hermione Granger,  _ and the most dreaded  _ Potter, this Harry Potter boy you always speak of, and never once have you proven to him the worth of our family name, Draco.  _ So Draco studied, and tormented with the support of Crabbe and Goyle, and tried his very hardest not to feel. Averted his eyes to the dusty kitchen floor when Lupin and Black shared a quick, icy-cold kiss of reunion.

A couple inaudible whispers between the two, and all of a sudden they were apart again, Lupin moving to guide Draco to take a seat at the end of the dining room table while Draco flinched away from a touch that didn’t come. He saw the wordless glances they shared- Sirius Black’s eyes questioning and looking a little pale and feverish (or did he always look like that? Draco didn’t know.) and Lupin with this repeated kind, apologetic glance towards Sirius that Draco wasn’t certain how to interpret. He could tell that the two wanted to talk somewhere with Draco out of earshot, but were uneasy leaving him alone and out of sight. So Draco broke the silence.

“I want to speak with Professor Snape,” he said, and for an inexplicable moment he felt like a small child. The time he’d been alone and abandoned in a Diagon Alley toy shop, display stands looming, tugging on the shirt sleeve of an employee asking where his mother had gone. 

Lupin and Black shared another glance, and all of a sudden Draco wished desperately that they would  _ stop,  _ felt like he was being left out of some grander conversation, left to rot on his own while the two pretended to care about his well being. He was overcome with the urge to run. He could still leave now. He doubted they would stop him, cowards that they were.

But he did not leave. Against his better judgement, he stayed.

“You’ll be happy to hear I’ve contacted Severous about your predicament,” Lupin said after a beat. “But I’m afraid he won’t be available to come collect you until tomorrow morning.”

Draco gripped the table’s edge, vision once again going spotty. He forced a straight face.

“I need to see him  _ now.  _ Can’t you make him come sooner?”

And to add insult to injury, the pair shared that strange knowing glance again, and it took Draco everything he had not to scream in frustration. Sirius seemed to catch this look on his face, looking at him sympathetically, and somehow that made things entirely worse. His left arm burned and the tail end of the scar was visible just above his shirt cuff. To think he could have the honor to bear the Dark Mark, but instead- this disgusting scar. Trapped in a disgusting place with disgusting people.

“Draco,” Sirius Black said softly, as though he faced some inner turmoil just saying the boy’s name out loud. Pressed his freezing cold hands together on top of the lacy tablecloth and tried to express some semblance of kindness through his eyes. “It would help me- the both of us- if you could tell us what happened.”

Silence so heavy that Draco could hear the ticks of a grandfather clock in the neighboring room. Quiet enough to hear the beginnings of July rain smattering across the front porch.

Against all odds, Draco told Sirius Black and Remus Lupin everything.

…

“You look well, Harry.”

At the moment Dumbledore said this, Harry had caught a glance of his own face mirrored in the dark living room window, and suspected that he’d just been told an extremely blatant lie.

He had not slept the night prior. His excitement over leaving the Dursleys had done nothing to improve the nightmares, and he woke up that morning as he had every morning before that- grasping uselessly at air, watching his godfather being pulled by thin ghostly arms into the clutches of death. He saw the heavy bags under his eyes. Knew that his face was drawn and vaguely sickly.

When he’d seen Dumbledore approaching up the porch, Harry had brought Hedwig and all his things downstairs as fast as humanly possible, heart pounding at the thought that he would arrive at Grimmauld Place within a matter of minutes. But Dumbledore’s quick greeting was deceptive, and as it were it seemed that Harry had a long night ahead before he could even begin to hope to be reunited with his godfather.

It began when Dumbledore stepped past him indoors, rather than beckoning him outside as Harry had expected. Harry stood uncomfortably by the unlit fireplace as Dumbledore lectured the Dursleys about their accommodation of Harry as long as he was underage. Vague promises about the power of love, more importantly the power of  _ blood. _ Though Harry loathed himself for thinking this thought, Dumbledore’s long lecture to his Aunt and Uncle felt uncomfortably similar to the extensive ‘pureblood’ rants he was used to hearing from particularly bold Slytherins. And then his mind drifted to Draco Malfoy, which caused him to think, once again, about Sirius drifting through the veil. So he shook hair out of his eyes and forced himself to be attentive to the conversation at hand.

Dumbledore’s hand was rotted and disgusting, something the man refused to explain even when he held it out to Harry to apparate for the first time. Felt like a gnarled tree under Harry’s palm. Was this some advanced iteration of arthritis? He was fully aware that Dumbledore was getting on in years, but this felt somehow far too excessive. He did not ask this question again, which was what Albus Dumbledore had always expected of him.

Harry was still reeling from the sudden decompression of exiting a state of apparition, but he noticed almost immediately that their destination was most certainly not Grimmauld place. Once again, he asked Dumbledore what was going on, and was met with a wise smile that explained nothing.

By Dumbledore’s subtle direction, little winks and pushes and loud yet subtle warning statements whenever Harry showed any sign of uncertainty, Horace Slughorn was convinced to teach at Hogwarts the following school year (at the expense of Harry’s membership in the exclusive Slug Club). The clap on his shoulder as they left the decrepit old home-  _ “Excellent job, Harry!”  _ exclaimed as soon as Slughorn was out of earshot- well, it was almost enough to make Harry ignore the fact that he had, once again, been taken complete advantage of for Dumbledore’s benefit.

Yet all this was entirely out of mind, when finally,  _ finally,  _ Harry found himself at the front porch of Sirius’ home. Stumbling and aching and unused to apparition, but he was home at last and everything was finally going to be okay. 

Dumbledore followed him in, quietly shutting the door behind. And Harry heard Sirius from the kitchen ( _ God,  _ how long had it been?) but nothing else mattered now and he dropped his luggage not caring how much noise he made in front of that awful painting- rushed to the dining room to reunite with his godfather--

Instead slamming directly into the back of a dining chair occupied by (terrifyingly, impossibly, inconceivably) no one other than Draco Malfoy himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say for this one! as always, thank you for your comments and kudos (50?!!! i cant believe this) and thanks in particular to everyone who's stuck around the past few days!


	5. The Face Behind the Barrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry follows Draco upstairs. Dumbledore requests a private conversation.

“Harry!” Sirius had said, standing up out of surprise and reckless joy, and that was when Draco Malfoy realized whose glasses had just been flung into his lap. Draco didn’t dare himself to look up or to turn around, because he knew what he would see. And it (or rather  _ he _ ) was the last thing in the entire world that he ever wanted to see again.

So he stood, eyes focused up to an irrelevant point on the dining room ceiling, shoved Potter’s glasses roughly into the boy’s chest and tried not to look at his blank, confused face as he pushed past back into the foyer. He heard Lupin make a noise of protest and felt Potter’s eyes burning into the back of his head (“-Malfoy?”) but he didn’t care, even when he nearly stubbed his toe on the doorframe on his way out.

Oh, and now things were  _ worse, worse, worse,  _ because here in front of him, standing in the doorway so the exit was blocked, was the damn Headmaster Albus Dumbledore himself. Looking at him curiously but also with that signature expression where he acted like he already knew everything he needed to know about Draco. So leaving wasn’t an option. 

Draco was clambering the stairs before he knew what he was doing. Nearly tripped over the carpet, which slipped as he ran, not quite fastened properly to the floor. And the whole way up,  _ watching, watching, watching,  _ Albus Dumbledore’s eyes on his back and Draco knew that there was not a man in this world that he trusted less. 

The stairs went higher than Draco had expected, and he found himself panicked, albeit unpursued, in front of two doors. On instinct, he yanked open the one that did not have Sirius Black’s name on it and shut himself inside, trying to regulate his breath, forehead pressed up to the back of the door.

_ Damn it.  _ He’d left his luggage down on the ground floor, where surely it was being looked through, laughed at while Sirius Black told Potter all about the disgusting situation Potter’s class rival had gotten himself into this time. Cursed himself for spilling his guts to the two traitors, tried to figure out how they’d gotten him to speak to them, so easily and without caution. Had it been magic? No, they hadn’t cast any spells on him that Draco could tell. So what was it then? Was Draco just sick of being ignored?

After a moment, verifying that the hallway outside was silent and that he had not been followed, Draco removed his forehead from the door, blond hair slightly sticky with sweat. The room had clearly not been touched in a long time- thick layer of dust coating every piece of furniture, velvety blackout curtains drawn almost entirely, illuminating the room entirely by what little moonlight seeped through.

It was too dark to see details, but a quick  _ lumos  _ charm revealed the abundance of Slytherin paraphernalia lining the walls, spilling out of the wardrobe, carpeting the floors. Various articles about Voldemort’s activities were glued above the desk, all dating back decades ago. The pureblood regalia was familiar, yet but not comforting considering Draco’s circumstances, so he brushed dust off the bed’s duvet cover and laid down, staring straight up at the ceiling- the only part of the room that had been left blank. 

Five minutes passed. Then maybe ten- it was hard to tell. The downstairs grandfather clock was no longer audible, but he counted the seconds best he could, until his mind wandered to unpleasant places- Greyback’s teeth and Harry Potter’s confused eyes and Dumbledore standing at the front door like a sage, staring him down but never speaking. When this happened, Draco started back at ‘one’ and time became irrelevant.

The knock was expected. Surprising, even, that it hadn’t come sooner. And Draco didn’t respond because out of his options in the house, there was nobody he wanted to hear from. And what if he left now? Sure, then he’d never get the chance to meet with Snape, but maybe it was better that way. Night of the full moon, he could sprint out in the woods and pray that some bigger creature took him out before he had to live another day.

After a pause, the door opened. Draco bolted upright instantly. He hadn’t been expecting this, hoping that whoever was on the other side would manage to muster enough false morality to have the good sense to leave him alone. Wasn’t that what Dumbledore’s loyal followers always did? Pointless acts of kindness to prove that they were the better person?

It was worse than he ever could have imagined. Harry Potter standing in the doorframe, one hand on the door handle, the other rested lightly on the wall behind. Illuminated by the candlelight of the hallway outside. Too dark in the room for Draco to properly see his face, but it didn’t really matter. He knew why the boy was here.

“Come to gloat, Potter?” he asked and for some reason, Harry Potter took this as an invitation to step into the room. Draco couldn’t stop him. He turned on the lights in the room and Draco scrambled for his composure while Harry pretended to be very intrigued by the contents of a shelf on the wall adjacent to the door.

“They wouldn’t tell me why you’re here, Malfoy,” Potter said at last, then paused. Draco had been shifting to the edge of the bed in another attempt at escape, but the words caught him by surprise. Of course Potter was probably lying, but then on the off chance it was true- had Sirius really kept Draco’s secret even from his own godson? 

Finally, having pretended to look at the trophies on the shelf for far too long, Potter turned around, just in time for Draco to avert his eyes in the opposite direction. 

“But things must be really bad if you came to Sirius, right?” Potter said at last, very clearly trying to read Draco’s face. “I mean, after everything that happened last spring at the Ministry of M-”

“I don’t owe you information, alright?”- and even as he said it, he wished he’d been harsher. Anything to get the boy to leave without sacrificing more of his dignity than he already had. “I know they sent you up here to interrogate me. I’m sick of it. Leave.” 

Felt the eyes on him. Didn’t dare look.

“Malfoy, that’s not what I-”

“Leave!”

And so he did. Not before sending one last glance over his shoulder, hand on the doorframe, light passing under his arm and glaring off his glasses. 

“Remus told me to tell you we’re getting takeaway. Wanted me to ask if you had a preference.”

No response.

“Right, then.”

The door shut a moment later, leaving Draco alone in the dark. He grasped away at his left sleeve and looked at the scar Greyback had left, mangled and jagged across his arm. Jaundiced and tender where the wound hadn’t fully healed. Night sky shone pale through the gaps in the curtains, and everything was miserable.

...

Seemingly endless surprises had been haunting Sirius Black’s home tonight.

Remus hadn’t been expected back for another week at the very least. But more jarringly than that, it had been the Malfoy boy he’d seen, stiffly standing in the kitchen entrance. His presence, stoic and strange in a white button-up wrinkled with exhaustion, combined with the silent entry had made him think, for a moment, that he was under attack. It wasn’t out of the question that the boy would come back to finish what he’d started all those months ago. Dragging Sirius out of the veil with his bare arms. Sirius hadn’t been aware of his surroundings when it happened, but Harry had told him afterwards, at a makeshift hospital bed. Wide-eyed like he couldn’t believe it either. And Sirius half expected to see Voldemort himself standing in the foyer, pointing menacingly at Draco, watching and waiting for the deed to be done.

He’d been about to break out of his shock, go run for his wand, which, _oh, God,_ he’d left it on the table in the other room. Careless, completely unprepared if something was to happen to him in his own home. But then, behind Draco- Remus, with that little smile, distant and apologetic yet so achingly familiar. Just seeing him was enough to know he was safe, and in that moment, even the little Death-Eater-in-training standing unexplained in his kitchen wasn’t enough to keep them apart. 

Remus’ eyes were filled with urgency when their embrace broke, hands falling on top of Sirius’ hands which had gripped the front of his wool scarf, some unconscious attempt to feel warm again.

“I’m sorry for the unexpected… well, unexpected everything-” Remus had said, under his breath and out of earshot.

“You’re fine, it’s fine,” Sirius said, messing with a loose thread on the worn man’s sweater. Then remembered the boy in the other room once again, and tried his very hardest to match Remus’ anxious tone. “But why did you bring him here? Did he try to-”

And Remus knew what Sirius thought, because he always knew. Felt the hand against his jawbone, checking for injury.

“He didn’t hurt me. It’s…”

And then pushed the hand away, forced Sirius to look him in the eyes.  _ Restless man,  _ Sirius could see the silent message in Remus’ face. _ Gather your thoughts.  _

“Something happened to him with Greyback. He hasn’t told me specifics. But I had to bring him somewhere.”

“Shit,” and a glance back to confirm caught the boy cradling his left arm, hint of a bite scar poking out where the shirt didn’t cover his wrist.  _ “Shit,  _ Remus, what do we do?”

“Contacted Snape before leaving the station,” Remus said, hushed, taking a step back with one hand still clutched to Sirius’ t-shirt, pulling them into the dining room to prevent them from drifting into earshot. “He’ll be here tomorrow. It’s cutting it close, I know, but-”

Remus looked over Sirius’ shoulder and it was clear that Malfoy was staring, trying to listen in.

“We just have to speak with him. I’m so sorry, I know how difficult this must be for-”

But Sirius couldn’t look at Remus’ tired face for one more moment, so instead he grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him into a kiss, closed his eyes and felt hands settle onto his hair and pretended that they were nineteen again, sitting by the lake as night fell over Lily and James’ wedding. Tried to remember the way the air felt that night. Then pushed away, having caught a glimpse of Draco staring bitterly at the floor. 

Draco and Remus' unexpected arrival had been the first two surprises of the night, but not the last. Several things happened at once when Sirius caught sight of Harry Potter stumbling for balance over the back of Draco’s chair. First, Draco left the room, too quickly to be stopped. Made some move to push Harry away, or return his dropped glasses (maybe both). Ran to the hall, apprehended someone at the doorway and then rushed up the stairs from the sound of it. Second, Harry shoved his glasses back onto his face and stared in shock after Draco, before Remus took it upon himself to break the discomfort, and then Harry was in the arms of both of them, laughing into Sirius’ shoulder and nearly falling again over another one of the dining room chairs. 

The final surprise of the night made itself known all too soon, and Sirius’ laughter and preemptive questioning of Harry’s arrival died into silence within a single instant. 

“It’s been quite a while, Sirius,” said Dumbledore, standing on the other end of the dining room, hands folded patiently over the front of his long plum-colored robes. The other three looked to each other for a moment, and then Remus smiled widely to Dumbledore and pulled out a chair for him.  _ Merlin,  _ Sirius was left endlessly questioning how it was even physically possible for Remus be so relentlessly kind.

“It’s…” _‘Good to see you’_ felt like an exaggeration. “It really has been a while.”

“There’s much I need to speak to the both of you about,” said Dumbledore, and half of Sirius wanted to scream in relief at the prospect of finally receiving answers. The other half wanted to grab the man by his ridiculous beard and punch him in the face for having been silent and cryptic for so long while people’s lives were at stake. 

Sirius felt Remus’ hand on his shoulder, and Sirius got the message loud and clear. Pulled a chair to sit before he said something he’d regret later. Remus gestured Harry to sit, even opened his mouth to offer tea, but Dumbledore suddenly shook his head.

“Harry, may I ask that you give the three of us privacy for just a few minutes?”

Well, that was all Sirius needed to hear and he almost stood up then and there, almost gave Dumbledore a piece of his mind- that Harry was no innocent child anymore and couldn’t Dumbledore see it killed the boy to be kept in the dark like this for the sake of the old fool’s cowardly plans. And Remus knew him far too well because the grip on Sirius’ shoulder tightened, and Remus spoke over the beginning of Sirius’ sentence.

“Harry, could you find Draco upstairs and ask him what he wants for dinner? We can get takeaway. This conversation will be over when you come back.”

Oh, there were many things to be discussed once Dumbledore was gone. Remus did what had to be done, and Sirius was grateful. Angry and grateful. Caught Harry’s eye as he left, tried to give him a look that said  _ ‘I’ll tell you everything later,’  _ and Harry must have understood because he bit back a smile while he climbed the stairs. Just seeing him smile dulled the rage slightly, and Remus’ hand slid down from his shoulder to his wrist as he pulled a chair beside Sirius. Dumbledore eyed them carefully.

“I was not expecting to see Draco here tonight,” he began, his two index fingers brought to a point over crossed hands. Had Dumbledore’s arm always looked like a burnt match?

“Remus found him at the train station trying to get to Hogwarts,” Sirius said, biting back further questions because he knew it was what Remus would have done.

“He had a run-in with Greyback by Voldemort’s command. We think it had to do with what he did for Sirius at the Ministry.”

A squeeze of Sirius’ hand as he spoke. His hand was so much warmer. Sirius had been cold since the veil had grabbed him.

“This is certainly unprecedented,” Dumbledore said, as though precedence was all he cared about. “But I hope you are aware of how this encounter may give us the upper hand.”

Remus tensed at this, something that took Sirius by surprise. He looked over, but Remus Lupin’s face had not changed.

“What do you mean, Albus?” Remus said through gritted teeth, like he was afraid to hear the answer. Dumbledore stared at him over the rim of his crescent glasses.  _ Analyzing,  _ always analyzing. And his face seemed sharper, looking less like the hunter and more like the gun.

“The boy could be an excellent asset to the Order, if we could only convince him to tell us what he knows,” Dumbledore said at last. “I’m fully aware of the Malfoy family’s association with the Dark Lord and his ranks. They surely did not expect their own child to turn traitor. As such, Draco is surely hiding useful information.”

Remus’ hand tightened, then let go entirely, and Sirius saw it slam onto the tabletop, curled into a fist. Felt a twisted mix of horror at what Dumbledore had just proposed, and delight at the reaction that Remus had finally lost enough of his composure to show.

“The boy is  _ traumatized,  _ Albus! I don’t care what you think we’ll hear from him. I am not  _ interrogating him,  _ especially not when...”

Remus Lupin’s glance out the arched window towards the nearly-full moon was enough to finish his sentence for him. Dumbledore set his hands down flat.

“By all means, take your time. But information is power, Remus. Don’t forget it.”

Divert, deflect, throw rocks to distract the man who held the rifle. Sirius gripped the tablecloth.

“Why did you decide to bring Harry to us tonight?” Sirius asked, and speaking with civility to Albus Dumbledore felt like choking. Dumbledore gave a wise smile. He knew what Sirius was doing. He did not object, but Sirius still felt as though the man was tearing him apart.

“It was the right time for him to come,” Dumbledore said, and Sirius wanted to scream, kicking himself for believing that he could ever simply draw a straight answer out of Dumbledore. Remus’ hand fell onto his once more.

“It was wonderful to hear from you,” said Remus, and stood. Dumbledore knew what was being communicated. Always knew. Gathered his things and stood up with Remus to leave.

“Harry is, of course, in good hands,” Albus Dumbledore said as he crossed back to the exit, pausing at the door for a moment to gesture with his gnarled hand back into the dining room. “And you may want to remind Mr. Draco Malfoy that he’s left his luggage downstairs.”

Vanished into the rainy night before Sirius could even say  _ goodbye,  _ or  _ thanks for nothing,  _ or  _ I hope you die a miserable death.  _ Remus did not speak a word after Dumbledore left. Just went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Sirius sat alone in the dining room and watched the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have officially made the executive decision that kreacher will be present as little as humanly possible in this story because writing him sounds like genuine torture. maybe this is an au where kreacher doesn’t exist. might have to go back and retcon some things (*tags story as ‘kreacher divergence’*). anyway sorry to disappoint if you’ve been reading the story this whole time hoping for some Touching Kreacher Moments. god i hate kreacher so much. jk rowling what were you thinking by implementing him as a character?? 
> 
> anyway thanks from the bottom of my heart for all your comments!! you all motivate me so much to keep going. updates are probably gonna slow a bit since midterms are coming up, but i’ll try my best to get at least one new chapters up as quickly as time allows for.


	6. The Shift to Evening Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry celebrates his birthday with family and friends. Draco transforms.

“And you’re sure that it was  _ Malfoy,  _ and not some… I don’t know, a weird lookalike-”

“Long-lost twin brother?”

_ “ _ Clone, perhaps? _ ” _

And Ron Weasley, George Weasley, and Fred Weasly respectively looked at Harry Potter with expectant eyes, as though Harry knew any better than them what had occurred two evenings prior in the dining room of 12 Grimmauld Place.

It was late afternoon and sunlight washed golden across the parlor, almost bright enough to dull the severity of the Black family tree, threadbare and rotted on the wall. The Weasleys had arrived late the night before, filling the bleak house with noise and bustle, and although Harry had appreciated the day’s worth of solitude with Sirius and Remus, it came as quite a relief to have others there to fill the silence. Despite Sirius’ unspoken promise the night of his arrival, Harry had been provided very little information as to what Draco Malfoy had been doing there, seemingly on the verge of breakdown at the mere sight of Harry’s entrance.

  
  


When he’d asked upon returning to the dining room, Sirius told him that Malfoy was having “family concerns,” and Remus, even more unhelpfully, had simply apologized when asked and said that it was “a private matter.” And Harry did not question further, although he wanted to, because he trusted Sirius enough to know that the man would not keep secrets from him unless it was desperately vital to do so. Yet something was odd about the whole situation. Every time Harry looked at Sirius, he saw the gaunt face of the man who’d been grabbed by death in the Department of Mysteries earlier that year. Malfoy’s arrival couldn’t have been a coincidence: not with everything that had happened. So Harry did not discount the idea of solving this mystery on his own terms.

Draco had not come down for dinner that night, but Remus left briefly to bring food up to him. Came back empty-handed but did not indicate whether he had spoken to Malfoy or not. And the rest of that night and the following day was silent and strange until the Weasleys arrived. Feeling quite like nobody dared to make a sound. 

Malfoy was gone when Harry woke up the next morning.

  
  


It was July 31st now, Harry’s birthday, and the house had reached a quiet afternoon lull- the adults having left on a mysterious errand earlier that morning (which, if Arthur Weasley’s wink towards Harry as he ushered Molly out the door, had something to do with that night’s festivities). Bill, Charlie, and Percy were all absent on vague governmental business, and Harry had seen very little of Ginny since the night of the Weasley’s arrival. He’d spent the majority of the day with Ron and the twins, catching Ron up on everything he’d missed the previous summer and amusedly watching Fred and George’s antics when they weren’t holed up as well with business regarding the joke shop.

So the afternoon hand found them in the parlor- Fred and George eager to hear about Malfoy’s appearance while Ron lay sprawled over the sofa beneath the window, absently tossing a pack of trick cards up and down with one hand. Harry was sat on the piano bench, feeling restless in the summer heat as the four of them waited for the house to feel full again.

“He was acting really strange,” Harry said after the three turned to him for answers. “But it  _ was  _ Malfoy, I know that much.”

“Maybe they finally let him be a Death Eater,” Ron said, catching the pack of cards for a final time and dropping them on his chest. “You-know-who sent him here to kill Sirius and he flipped out when you showed up because it was interrupting his plans.”

“But he didn’t just  _ show up, _ ” Harry said, turning to face the piano and pressing down on one of the keys absentmindedly. “Remus found him at King’s Cross and brought him here.”

“We can sell you an Extendable Ear if you want to eavesdrop on the meeting tonight and find out what happened. Half off- friend’s discount,” Fred said, seeming less invested in Malfoy’s arrival than the prospect of a business venture. 

“But Sirius would have told me,” Harry said. “I bet the rest of the Order doesn’t even know. ‘Cept maybe Dumbledore.”

“Yeah, well, Dumbledore knows everything, doesn’t he?” Ron said, sitting up a little abruptly and sliding to the edge of the sofa. “Didn’t Sirius tell anybody else? I mean, Lupin’s got to know, right?”

“Yeah, but he won’t tell me anything either,” Harry said dejectedly. He picked away at a spot on the piano where the paint was beginning to chip off. George grabbed the trick deck from where it had slid off the sofa and tossed a card at Harry’s head.

“Welcome to the club, Chosen Boy,” he said when Harry tossed it back in annoyance. “Fred and I are adults and they still don’t tell us anything.”

_ “Run along, boys,” _ Fred added in a mocking imitation of Molly Weasley’s voice.  _ “The meeting will be over soon and then you can come ba-ack.” _

“I mean, you’d think we have a right to know what’s going on,” George continued. “We’re  _ business owners  _ now, for crying out loud!”

“You certainly don’t act like it-” Ron began to mutter but George lunged over and pulled him into a headlock before he could finish, and Harry, watching them, found it just a little bit easier to forget everything that had been bothering him since he’d stumbled into the back of Draco’s chair two nights before.

  
  


Harry had suspected correctly- Sirius and Lupin and the Weasleys came back with a folded paper box with a bakery logo on top, as well as several wrapped packages that they refused to speak of. But the most welcome surprise entered behind them, tentatively opening the door and kicking off her shoes in the foyer.

“Hermione!” Harry roared and rushed to the stairs, catching her in the hallway for a hug that Ron was quick to join in on. 

“Happy birthday, Harry,” she’d said, voice muffled by the impact of the hug, and then pulled away quickly, handing him a book-shaped package from her bag.

“I didn’t think you were gonna be here,” Harry replied, stepping aside to let her into the house and failing to bite back his wide smile. 

“Sirius wanted it to be a surprise-”

“She’s lying!” Sirius cut her off from the other room, where he was struggling to set the bakery box on the counter, Remus steadying him gently as he nearly dropped the rest of the packages he was carrying in his other arm. “Don’t believe her, Harry, the surprise was her idea.”

Hermione rolled her eyes with that small, familiar smirk and linked her arms through Harry and Ron’s, pulling the both of them two the dining room. Ginny had come downstairs at the commotion, giving Harry a bit of a weak smile before pulling Hermione into a welcoming hug, quickly brightening as the two caught up on the details they’d missed since the beginning of the summer. Leaving them to it, Harry went over to the kitchen to give Sirius a hand. He grabbed the packages from Sirius’ other arm  _ (“no peeking!”)  _ and set them on the table. Molly Weasley squeezed past next to him towards the kitchen, setting down more packages with nondescript labels and giving Harry a little pat on the arm as she passed. On the other side of the table, Arthur Weasley motioned excitedly for him to sit down.

“You won’t believe what we saw while we were out, Harry,” he said, drawing a chair across the way. In the kitchen, Harry caught a glimpse of Molly rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Someone out in their garden with this big old smoking machine. Hermione called it a  _ garbecue- _ ”

_ “Barbecue,  _ Mr. Weasley.”

Hermione turning exasperatedly back to her conversation with Ginny as though it was not the first time she’d made this correction. 

“Right.  _ Barbecue.  _ Harry, have you ever seen one before?”

...

Twenty-four hours prior to Hermione’s arrival at Grimmauld Place. Draco sat, freezing cold and entirely alone, on a wooden chair in Professor Snape’s classroom.

Whatever insulation charm was in place throughout the school year clearly was not maintained in the off months, because Draco had been shivering since he entered the Hogwarts gates. Or perhaps he was just terrified. Night had nearly fallen.

Sirius Black had taken personal responsibility for driving Draco to Hogwarts via flying motorcycle that afternoon. 

“Dumbledore’s letting you live at Hogwarts under Snape’s- sorry, Professor Snape’s- permission ‘till the school year starts,” Sirius had said, putting on a helmet and directing Draco to climb into the sidecar. It was dusty in there, clearly had not been used in a long time, but Draco complied silently, dragging his trunk in behind him. 

The ride there was brief and uneventful. Of course, Draco’s eyes had been closed for most of it so that he would not be tempted to terrify himself by looking down. When the motorcycle touched down in the familiar Hogwarts courtyard, Draco could not bring himself to speak to Sirius. Didn’t even thank him for his hospitality or for the motorcycle ride, although it seemed as though Sirius had been expecting this response, because all he did before leaving was clap Draco on the shoulder and tell him to take care of himself. Gave a curt nod hello to Professor Snape, who’d been on the ground waiting for them. He was back in the air, flying off the way they’d come in less than a minute’s time. If Sirius had wanted to say more, he was very good at hiding it.

Snape took no time for small talk, ensuring Draco was right behind him as they strode down the halls towards the staircase that led down into his classroom and office.

“Your mother paid me a visit last night.”

Draco almost keeled over.

“What? How did she know I was missing?” 

Professor Snape did not turn to look him in the eye, just snorted in contempt.

“You don’t give your family enough credit, Mr. Malfoy. Your mother was very...disconcerted... to find that you were gone. She thought you’d been kidnapped, and came to me.”

“You didn’t tell her where I was, did you?”

Snape had a quick walking pace. Draco had to take twice as many steps to stay caught up, especially while lugging his trunk behind him.

“I did not. But she is aware that you’re in safe hands. You should have spoken to her before departing.”

“I couldn’t have- you know I-”

Snape turned just slightly, and the bitter look in his eye was enough for Draco to stop speaking.

“But your absence was not the only reason she visited me. She also came to remind me of a deal that must be upheld.”

They arrived at the thin staircase that led down towards Snape’s office. Snape swept around to beckon Draco to go ahead down the stairs, but the boy was frozen in place.

“No, I…” Hands shaking. Had to set his things down. “I can’t, not now…”

The professor let out a long sigh. Tugged at the cuffs of his own robes impatiently. Turned his hand over, where the Unbreakable Vow still shone.

“Draco, I cannot comprehend why you expected that running away would solve all your problems. Your family has suffered greatly from your absence. And besides…”

And Severous Snape moved to guide the boy down the stairs himself, small torches on the wall flickering on automatically as they descended.

“You mustn’t forget. Killing Albus Dumbledore would surely put you in extremely good favor with the Dark Lord. Perhaps enough to atone for your mistake.”

  
...

He’d sat Draco down at a table in the potions classroom before disappearing into his office, returning several minutes later with a faintly blue potion.

“I’ve strengthened the dosage of the Wolfsbane,” he said briskly, “To accommodate for the urgency of your situation.”

Draco took the goblet without a word, giving the concoction a smell. It was bitter, had a thick and slimy consistency.

“In the future, you must drink one of these daily for a week leading up to the full moon.” Snape caught Draco’s hesitation towards the potion. “Night is falling, so drink it now.”

It tasted disgusting, and Draco had to plug his nose in order to make it go down on his throat, like the firewhiskey Blaise used to sneak into the Slytherin common room. Professor Snape took the goblet upon seeing that Draco had drunk it all.

“The bite did not occur on the full moon, correct?” Snape asked, rinsing the goblet out in the sink built into the classroom wall. Draco shook his head and Snape gave him an odd look.

“But he did  _ bite  _ you, did he not?”

The scar on Draco’s arm was enough proof of that. He nodded, trying not to remember the way Greyback’s teeth had felt when they punctured his skin.

“Well. You’ve taken the potion, so I suppose all that’s left is to wait.”

Severous Snape deposited the goblet on a shelf in the back of the room, then went to the potions classroom door and locked it tightly.

“I will be in my office for the rest of the night in the circumstances that anything goes wrong. You’ll spend the night here in the classroom, and may do so throughout the school year as well.”

There were no windows underground, no indication of how high the moon was in the sky. Draco was having a difficult time breathing, so he stared at the top of a table and tried his best to slow his mind down. 

“Oh, and Mr. Malfoy?”

He paused at the doorway to his office.

“Yes?”

The response came out sounding much weaker and shakier than Draco had intended. He took a deep breath, but it did no good.

“Remus Lupin requested I warn you of this. The transformation  _ will  _ be painful. I advise that you prepare yourself.”

The door shut, and moments later Draco heard the sound of a lock click. As soon as Severous Snape was out of the room, Draco slid slowly off the classroom chair and fell to the floor, head in hands. His fingers tangled up in his own hair and he shut his eyes, but neither action helped.

He stayed there until the first spinal bone began to shift. And by that point it was far too late, because mind was slipping away into the pain, and _losing,_ _losing,_ he was losing himself beyond return.

For reasons he could not explain, the last thing he saw before the  _ blindness,  _ before the  _ animal  _ and the  _ nothingness  _ took over- Harry Potter, crouched desperately over the breathing body of his godfather in the Department of Mysteries. Green eyes caught his for just a flash, dark in the blue light of the veil, and then all of it was gone, distant, irrelevant, and all that was left for Draco was fur, flesh, bones, and the endless clawing feeling that tugged at every cell in his body as the transformation took hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well here it is, good ol’ chapter six! things are picking up at last :)))
> 
> i’m really excited to get into the plot now that the setting (at least partially) is back at hogwarts! expect significant amounts of Boarding School Hijinks and Autumn Scenery in upcoming chapters. i will be trying my very hardest to hit every gay dark academia trope in rapid succession. 
> 
> in terms of the uploading schedule, i may take a short break sometime soon so that i can outline the remainder of this fic and edit the earlier chapters to better fit the diction of the more recent stuff. if everything goes well it shouldn’t take more than a day or two!
> 
> thank you as always for reading, for your kudos (85?!! WHOA!) and your wonderful comments, which i will take the time to respond to as soon as i can.


	7. Sun Through the Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius and Remus have a discussion. Harry is suspicious of Draco's actions, and follows him around.

“Cream?” Sirius asked, and from the table, Remus shook his head. He was focused on reading a book propped up against a glass of water _-The Dark Arts Outsmarted-_ as a part of some act to feign absentmindedness. Every brief moment where Sirius caught Remus’ gaze, he could tell his mind was anywhere but the words on the page- he hadn’t even got past page five despite having been seemingly engrossed in the text the whole afternoon. Sirius brought him his tea, sans cream, and sat across the table silently. 

The night had been worse than usual. Sirius was there with him the whole time, of course, as Padfoot, ensured that no harm fell upon him beyond the inevitable pain of transformation. But still. It was clear the man needed rest. Staring blankly at his book, face drawn into a creased frown. Eyebrows that seemed to furrow more with every passing month. Looked up to take his tea and attempted a reassuring smile, and maybe to an outside party he would have seemed perfectly well. Sirius knew better, though.

Twelve hours had passed since the full moon faded from the sky. After returning to humanity (bones shifting and shrinking, a breaking noise that viscerally hurt just to hear), Remus had taken the time to get changed, to brush his teeth and wash his face only to collapse in bed before the sun rose. Sirius, remaining in animagus form the whole time, never understood how he did it. How he could collect himself wordlessly, even after everything he’d gone through. They differed on that front, it seemed.

Remus returned to staring at his book, teacup in hand, after he’d ensured that Sirius knew he was alright. Late afternoon sunlight made golden squares on the kitchen table. The fireplace hissed with the green residue of floo powder- the others had left for Diagon Alley not half an hour ago, leaving the house empty once again. Outside, warm summer wind pushed away at the branches of a tree, rapping against the window slightly. Sirius could hear the rattling of pipes as one of the neighbors in the townhouse next door turned on their shower.

“Remus,” he said at last, trying to carefully organize his words so that they expressed as little hostility as possible. “...Remus. Where did you go? The last time you left?”

If this took Remus by surprise, he expressed none of it. He tapped the book closed onto the table with one hand and set down his teacup, finally meeting Sirius’ eyes. The light, faux-calm smile never left his face, even as he studied Sirius’ for signs of suspicion.

“Dumbledore asked me to infiltrate a pack of Greyback’s followers,” he said, with a tone of careful phrasing that matched Sirius. “In Swansea.”

“...right.”

Sirius hadn’t intended to sound skeptical, but Remus picked up on it anyway, finally returning to full concentration as he brought his hands flat onto the table, dust motes swirling in the afternoon light with the disturbance. He looked for a moment as though he was going to reach for Sirius’ hand, but did not. Tugged at a loose thread on the sleeve of his jumper instead.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. And meant it, heartbreakingly enough.

“Remus, I-”

“I know how hard it’s been for you, staying behind, I’m-” 

Touched one finger to the rim of the teacup, drawing circles.

“I wish I could be here more.”

 _Yeah, well._ Dumbledore always seemed to ensure _t_ _hat_ was impossible.

“I wish you could, too.”

Sirius could see that Remus knew he wanted to say more. But what was there to speak on that they hadn’t already talked about already? Bouncing the same old words back and forth over supper, in bed, behind closed doors, until it felt more like a script than anything else.

Silence made Sirius uncomfortable. 

“So… how are the Swansea werewolves?”

Remus took a sip of his tea, looking out the window like it was an effort to keep his eyes inside.

“They’re hurting badly, Sirius. Lonely. Want revenge, but they don’t know who they want revenge on.”

Sirius laughed, although it wasn’t funny. A quiet barking sound that brought Remus’ gaze back into the room.

“Can’t say I don’t know the feeling.”

Remus smiled again, and things began to feel a little better again.

“Didn’t learn anything new regarding Voldemort’s plans, or anything like that. I don’t think they’re particularly in the loop.”

Remus’ face fell in remembrance. He suddenly stiffened, sitting back in his chair.

“Draco. I haven’t got word back from Severus yet, he could be-”

“The boy’s going to be _fine,_ Remus. He’s better off than you were at the time, going through the exact same thing,” Sirius said, reaching over the table. “I hate to admit it, but he’s in very good hands.”

“At least I had you when I was his age,” Remus replied, accepting Sirius’ outreached hand. “And James, and P- well, and James.”

“I’m not concerned for him, personally,” said Sirius, watching a bird land on the windswept tree outside the window. “From what Harry said, it seems like the kid’s got a lot going for him.”

“You don’t worry enough.”

There was a pause. Things, for once, almost felt peaceful.

“I worry about _you,”_ was all Sirius could think to say. And knew Remus knew he meant it. The radiator hummed. Windows shuddered from the wind. They stayed there, together, for a long time.

...

“You’re _obsessed,_ Harry,” hissed Hermione from next to him under the invisibility cloak, and, well, it wasn’t entirely untrue. In Harry’s left ear, Ron let out the latest of a series of long sighs.

“This is ridiculous. Let’s just head back, we’re not going to learn anything here.”

The trio had been shuffling along down the cobblestone streets of Knockturn Alley for nearly ten minutes now. Harry had sworn up and down to the others that he’d caught a glimpse of Malfoy through the window of the Weasley’s joke shop, walking briskly down the sidewalk with Professor Snape, of all people. Ron and Hermione hadn’t seen them like he had, but they’d been following a vaguely blond figure and a taller, dark-robed companion through winding roads for much longer than either of the two were comfortable with.

“It’s not even them,” Ron protested, as Harry led them around a corner, pulling both of the others out of the way of a squat old man with a pipe who nearly collided with them on the sidewalk. “Let’s go back, Mum will start to wonder-”

“Shush!” Harry said, because he was concentrating and the pair ahead of them had just entered a very shady-looking shop a block down across the street- _Borgin and Burkes,_ the swinging sign said, and something about the name felt familiar but Harry couldn’t place it.

He was met with hushed protests from Ron and Hermione as he pulled the two across the street and towards the shop window, pressing his forehead up against the glass just as the figures outside turned to face the man at the counter, confirming their identities.

 _“Merlin,_ Malfoy looks horrible,” Ron said, hand squeezing Harry’s shoulder slightly. It wasn’t an exaggeration. Malfoy, standing closely next to Snape, looked positively miserable- dark bags underneath his eyes, wrinkled clothes, and a long, freshly healed scratch across the left side of his face.

“What happened to him?” Hermione wondered, pressing a fist up to the glass through the invisibility cloak.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, watching closely as Snape said something inaudible to the clerk. “He didn’t look like this the other day at Sirius’ house, though.”

Snape looked just as greasy and imposing as ever. He continued his exchange with the shopkeep, and just as Harry was considering pressing his ear up to the glass to try and listen, he felt Ron slip an object into his palm. A tiny, tangled set of Extendable Ears.

The listening end of the pair of ears scuttled under the gap of the shop door without even needing to be directed, and the trio shifted positions so that they could all listen in to the other side as the conversation within the shop grew into focus.

“-minor difficulties, yes,” said Snape to the shopkeep, who had left his position behind the front desk and was tending to an object out of view from the window. “But it has not interrupted the fact that we require-”

He turned away as he followed the shopkeep, momentarily muffling the sound of his voice through the Extendable Ear. Harry swore and tapped the string, urging the listening ear to crawl into the shop further.

“-with your family? We’ve all heard rumors about what happened to you…”

A voice that presumably came from the shopkeeper, out of sight but still within reach of the Ear, which was straining at the limits of its string trying to listen in.

“My family is not your concern. But they will be if you don’t uphold your end of the bargain.”

Malfoy, speaking at last. He sounded much more sure of himself than when he’d spoken to Harry several nights before, but Harry noticed a slight quaver in Draco’s voice at the mention of his family.

“Don’t worry yourself, boy, it’s safe with me.”

A very ambiguous statement, coming from the shopkeep once again. A hum of approval from Snape, and then, from the shopkeep-

“--Dark Mark under that sleeve of yours?”

Harry heard Malfoy begin to say something, but then Snape returned from around the corner and started towards the shop door. Hermione, panicked, tugged on the Extendable Ear string and the shop’s relative silence quickly faded into an echo of the street outside. Hermione wrapped up the ears and shoved them in her pocket, urging Harry and Ron to follow her away from the shop, just as Malfoy and Snape stepped out the doors.

Ron and Harry followed, shuffling back away into the gloomy streets, but Harry looked over his shoulder one more time. Malfoy looked straight through them, unaware that he was making direct eye contact with Harry as the trio stumbled away. And then Hermione tugged his sleeve, pulling him back into focus, and the three slid into a quiet alleyway that connected back to Diagon Alley, and finally pulled off the cloak. 

“So Malfoy’s a Death Eater after all. And Snape’s in on it, too.”

Hermione quickly bundled the cloak, as well as the set of ears, into her bag, while Ron seemed disenchanted by Harry’s statement.

“Well, didn’t we already know that already? About the both of them?”

“But the _dark mark,_ Ron, that’s _big,”_ Harry insisted. “I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem like something Draco would do.”

“Something Malfoy wouldn’t-” Ron sputtered. “Bloody hell, Harry, he tried to kill us in the Ministry last spring! This is exactly the sort of thing Malfoy would do!”

“Yeah, but he saved Sirius,” Harry said, beginning to feel quite outnumbered because Hermione, too, was staring at him as though he was absolutely insane. 

“So what if he saved Sirius? It was probably- I don’t know, part of you-know-who’s plan all along!”

“But then why was Draco at Grimmauld place the other night? Sirius and Remus wouldn’t tell me what he was doing there, but I would think they’d have mentioned seeing a damn _tattoo_ on his arm!”

“Harry,” Hermione said after a long pause. “I think we should go back and find the others.”

“What, nothing to add, Hermione?” Harry snapped, suddenly feeling quite defensive. She gave him an odd look, raising one eyebrow and pushing a coily lock of hair out of her eyes.

“No, actually. We’re leaving.”

Harry was insistent upon continuing the conversation, but Hermione, exasperated, led both him and Ron back out into the bright, uncovered sunlight of Diagon Alley. The three spoke very little for the rest of the outing, but Harry told himself repeatedly that he would get to the bottom of this mystery, with or without the help of his friends. It didn’t leave his mind even when they returned to Grimmauld place, because on the upstairs floor the door to Regulus’ room was still ajar from Draco’s hasty exit. Death Eater or not, Draco was hiding something, and it was Harry’s personal responsibility to find out what, exactly, that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone’s evening is going well! here is chapter 7, marking the last chapter before the Hogwarts Hijinks begin, so i hope you enjoy! i’m still working on revising the first few chapters of this fic (just fixing grammar and odd sentence structures, never plot changes) but i’m going to try to stick to my uploading schedule as best as possible. 
> 
> thanks as always for the love!


	8. Early Autumn Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco adjusts to his life both before and after the beginning of his sixth year at Hogwarts. Harry goes to the library.

Draco spent the final months leading up to the beginning of school alone, for the /most part. Hogwarts was entirely vacated except for himself, Professor Snape, and the groundskeeper (the latter two he earnestly avoided, and the former- well, he tried his best). Besides his late-summer trip to Diagon Alley for school supplies, his human contact had been almost entirely limited to exhausting meetings with Snape, who insisted on giving Draco repeated reminders of his duty to fulfill that year. He didn’t avoid the meetings because more often than not, Snape would provide a small bit of information on how his family was doing: Draco’s mother and father were actively searching for their son, but otherwise unharmed. It seemed that Professor Snape had not told them where Draco was, something that he was endlessly grateful for. But Draco was fully aware of the fact that Snape only reminded him of his family’s safety as a reminder of what would happen to them if he failed his mission. A bargaining chip, of sorts, held over his head at all times.

The empty months left far too much space for his mind to wander, so he took to reading- in the courtyard, usually, until one day Hagrid almost caught sight of him while making his rounds, and from then on Draco mainly kept indoors, or climbed up in trees where he wouldn’t be spotted. He didn’t fear being in trouble- no, he was certain the man was aware of Draco’s presence in the castle. Just didn’t want to have to deal with them, that pitying half-smile that everybody besides Professor Snape seemed to be giving him these days. Draco Malfoy was not used to, or comfortable with the notion of being pitied.

He made himself weak meals (mostly cereal and thin ham sandwiches from the kitchen’s preserves) when he felt hungry, which was not often these days. Ate crouched up in a window alcove somewhere, tried his hardest to focus on the highly informative  _ Flesh Eating Trees of the World,  _ and stayed there long enough to watch the patterns of sunlight slide down the brick walls of Hogwarts’ abandoned corridors, sat up against the window until night fell and the glass was cold to the touch.

All of this was in a failing effort to distract from thinking about the date of the next full moon, which was, regrettably, only several days before the first day of school. Draco wasn’t sure he’d ever fully recover from the last one. He had little memory of the night, though that period of time wasn’t completely blank- just difficult to comprehend in his mind as it was. A messy culmination of cravings and bundled energy and the faint, low shapes of furniture in Professor Snape’s classroom, all in the colorblind sepia-scale of eyes that were not his own. Violence, too. When he awoke the following morning, sprawled under a desk, chairs and tables were overturned, even a thready slash through one of the curtains, and he’d put on a sweater and jeans from his luggage and watched silently as Snape tidied things up around his classroom and explained that the delayed application of Wolfsbane must not have been entirely effective. He even had the nerve to start theorizing, to make a comment on how much Draco’s experience was pushing the boundaries of research on the condition of lycanthropy. But when he turned around to ensure Draco was listening, the boy had already slipped out the door and walked hastily out into the corridors beyond.

…

“You look horrible,” Blaise said, giving Draco the side-eye across the Slytherin dormitory as he unpacked his suitcase. And once more, it was no exaggeration. 

“Shut it, Blaise,” Draco said, reaching to pull the curtain of the canopy bed and shut himself inside, but the other boy was quick to yank it back away, quick to recognize when Draco was attempting to shut others out.

“Everyone’s been treating you weird since I saw you at dinner. And you weren’t on the express either, which…” Blaise seemed lost in thought for a moment, which Draco attempted to utilize to escape the conversation but was stopped once again by Zabini’s hand on his sweater sleeve. “Is everything alright at home?”

Blaise’s observations were horribly deft. It was true- Draco wasn’t sure what word had gotten around about him since his run-in with Greyback over the summer, but it clearly wasn’t good as most of the Slytherin house (particularly those he knew to have Slytherin family members), were now refusing to talk to him. He’d even been given the cold shoulder by Crabbe and Goyle, of all people, and Pansy Parkinson, who’d been quick to fawn over him in previous years, had scarcely even looked at him as he took his seat in the Great Hall.

Not to mention how miserable he knew he must look, exhausted and messy and scratched-up from his second moon, which sat uncomfortably present in his mind at all times- a fact that felt all the more obvious and public when he was back in the crowd, suffocating like a beached fish next to hostile friends-turned-strangers. He loathed to think of what classes would be like- shunned by everyone with the exception of Blaise, who it was rapidly becoming clear was his only ally at this school. Tormenting Potter and his lackeys probably wouldn’t be any fun anymore either, not without Crabbe and Goyle standing reassuringly behind him. 

Blaise waved a hand in front of his face, and Draco realized he had not been responsive to his questions, becoming fully aware of how terrible he must have been making himself seem. 

“Zabini, I’m fine,” he said, and finally managed to draw shut the curtain without being questioned again. Although he was not disturbed again, he knew that his dismissal would not sway Blaise from pressing the issue in the future. He stared up at the sagging, curtained roof of the canopy bed, and tried to recollect a time where everything wasn’t spiraling out of control.

…

Harry was a fool.

“Honestly, you two should have expected to have homework on the first day of class,” Hermione said, sliding her book bag to one arm and throwing herself onto one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room. “Sixth year’s  _ important.” _

A loud group of second years, chattering with the newfound confidence of no longer being the youngest students, stood in a tight circle by the fire, blocking access to the trio’s usual spot. Ron grumbled in complaint and then sat himself down on the edge of a table near Hermione’s chair while Harry set down a large stack of History of Magic notes next to him on the sofa across the way. 

“I know, Hermione, but come on- two pages by Wednesday? It’s ridiculous-” he was interrupted by a flareup of laughter from the second years at something irrelevant from across the room. “And it’s impossible to concentrate in here.”

“The library’s always open, Harry,” she reminded him, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the chattering. “Go study there. I’m not writing your essay for you this early in the year.”

“Will you write mine?” Ron asked, nudging her with his foot, and she stuck her tongue out. The gaggle of second years did not appear to be leaving anytime soon, so Harry stood up once again, collecting his things.

“Do you two want to come with? We can all work together.”

Hermione shook her head apologetically.

“I have a class soon. Besides- I already finished the essay.”

_ Typical.  _ Harry turned to Ron, who refused to meet his eyes.

“Do I  _ have  _ to?”

“Alright,” Harry said, and left on his own, appreciating the burst of silence as the common room door swung shut behind him. Most students were in class or at their dormitories at this time of day, so Harry enjoyed the silence and the pale autumn light seeping through the castle’s stained glass windows as he navigated his way to the library, flipping through his pages of hastily-scrawled notes while he tried to determine how he was possibly going to be able to muster up a two page essay about the Centaur Wars of 1678.

Once in the library, he took a seat near a window- facing the slightly looming corridors of the restricted section and spreading out his papers to begin work. Pince shot him a glare when his chair squeaked across the freshly-waxed floor while getting settled, but Harry sat down hastily and was subsequently unbothered for the time following.

In fact, he’d been doing quite well on his essay, having just completed his second paragraph, when he was overcome by a yawn, and let himself be distracted for a moment, setting down his quill and wiping away a spot where the ink had dripped onto the table. His eyes wandered to the far side of the table next to his, where somebody had set a large stack of books unclaimed for the short period of time Harry had been in the library. Eager for a brief respite from the dullness of ancient wizarding politics, Harry allowed himself to wonder about the titles of the books that had been left there.

_ Wandering with Werewolves  _ by Gilderoy Lockhart.  _ Comprehensive Guide to Lycanthropy  _ by Lester Barracus. Set on top of the stack, a torn page detailing times and dates for the lunar cycles throughout the 1996-1997 agricultural season, torn from a Muggle farmer’s almanac. Next to the stack of books was a small black leather-bound journal, closed but with several dog-eared pages visible from the top. 

It was certainly odd source material for someone’s school project.

Well, the Centaur essay beckoned. Harry shifted in his chair and picked up his quill, ready to start on the third paragraph  _ (historical tensions over collusion with humans)  _ when the squeak of a chair dragging a short distance away caused his eyes to flick back up at the source of the noise. A blond kid with his face stuck in an open book sitting down in front of the strange selection of books Harry had taken note of earlier. Harry had already looked back down at his own essay when his heart leaped in delayed shock, and he looked back up again to confirm that this was not just any Blond Kid, this was Draco Malfoy himself and he had not, in fact, noticed that Harry was staring straight at him.

He hadn’t seen Malfoy since the encounter while shopping for school supplies, and even then it had been hard to discern specific aspects of his appearance through the dusty window besides a general uncharacteristic  _ disheveled-ness.  _ But now Malfoy was up close, focused intensely on the book, and Harry saw in better detail his dark circles and the pattern of fresh scars scratched across the boy’s pale face, a particularly deep gouge scraping over the slightly bent bridge of Malfoy’s nose. Harry had never in his life seen Malfoy in this state, and he quickly glanced back down before his staring caught the other boy’s attention.

Why the pile of mysterious werewolf-themed books? Was it all part of some plan that Malfoy was carrying through for Voldemort? Learning how to identify werewolves?  _ Merlin,  _ maybe that’s why he’d been at Grimmauld place that night, sitting at the table and talking it out with Remus and Sirius. He’d been acting vulnerable to sell Lupin and the rest of the Order out to Voldemort, and somehow, they’d all bought into it! Harry swore internally for not having figured this out sooner.  _ God,  _ he was an idiot.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he’d moved to collect his belongings together and exit before Malfoy realized he was there, but,  _ shit,  _ in his haste he knocked over his whole vial of quill ink and watched in silent horror as it dripped down the side of the table. And of course, Madam Pince had some sort of supernatural radar for such things, and she was over in an instant, whispering furiously about library etiquette, whipping out her wand to magic the ink stain away and then pointing it threateningly at Harry, insisting he leave the library immediately. Harry scrambled to collect his things, knowing with full certainty that Pince would not hesitate to duel a student in cold blood over the honor of her precious library, and was halfway out the door before he thought to glance back. 

Malfoy was half standing up from his chair, looking back and forth between Harry and the pile of books he’d left unattended, something on his face that looked like terror. Then Pince ushered Harry out entirely and the heavy wooden door slammed in his face, blocking his line of sight entirely.

He stopped at an alcove a few metres down the hall to collect his belongings back together for the walk back to the Gryffindor dormitories. There was a view out into the castle courtyard from here, greenery just vaguely tinted with yellow leaves, a cool breeze hinting that Autumn was on the horizon. The pages of his Centaur essay had gotten all out of order in the hurry, and though Pince had shoved the refilled ink vial back into his hands, it was missing about half the ink he’d started out with when he’d left that afternoon.

Wishing very much that he’d brought some sort of bag to collect his belongings in, he shifted the stack of papers into one arm and shoved the quill and ink into his pocket, pushing off from the wall and walking off away from the library. He’d only taken several steps when-

“Potter!”

He whipped around, nearly dropping his things again when he saw Malfoy, striding towards him furiously, carrying a heavy book bag swung over one shoulder. The library doors were still swinging behind him, indicating that he’d rushed out after Harry in quite a hurry.

_ “Why  _ were you spying on me?” Malfoy asked bitterly, halting some distance away from Harry as if he could not be bothered to come any nearer. Harry struggled to keep hold of the large stack of papers in his arms.

“I wasn’t-”

“Yes, you were! I saw you sat in the library looking at my books- you were probably flipping through my notebook before I came back too, weren’t you?”

_ Notebook-  _ Harry took a moment to recall the dog-eared journal he’d seen on the table by the other books. So it belonged to Malfoy, did it?

“I wasn’t reading your  _ diary,  _ Malfoy, get over yourself-”

“It’s not...”

But Malfoy trailed off, seemingly coming to the realization that he’d been placed in a slightly indefensible position were he to try and argue that his notebook  _ wasn’t  _ a diary, forcing him to divulge more information about its contents than he was willing. Harry, satisfied, turned to go, then paused. It wasn’t the ideal time, perhaps, to confront Malfoy about his secret allegiance with Voldemort, but then again-

“I know you’re working with Fenrir Greyback and Voldemort to track down rebelling werewolves,” Harry blurted, the wild theory slipping out of his mouth before he even had the chance to determine what the  _ hell  _ he was talking about. At the mention of ‘Greyback’, Malfoy’s eyes widened and he made a bit of a choking noise, which Harry took as a sign that at least part of his statement had been true. But a moment’s further pause and suddenly he was laughing- genuine, bewildered laughter at the sentence that had just come out of Harry’s mouth.

“Potter, you’re-” 

He paused, took a moment to collect himself, replacing the smirk on his face with a neutral expression once more. 

“You’re an idiot. I should have expected this.”

He clutched the shoulder strap of his book bag and walked straight past Harry, forcing an expression of disgust as he began to walk away, the sound of the three o’clock bell drowning out the echo of his footsteps. The halls began to fill with students nearly immediately, and Harry rushed not to lose sight of Malfoy in the crowd, still clutching his essay pages.

“Malfoy, wait!”

Draco Malfoy did not turn around, letting himself be pulled down the hall by the rushing of students making their way to their next class.

“I want to know why you were at Sirius Black’s house last July,” Harry said desperately, and that was what got Malfoy to turn his head (as well as some other curious students, familiar with the name from publications about the prison break several years back). Malfoy slowed his pace, walking next to Harry and speaking low enough so that only the two could hear.

“So they didn’t tell you?” he asked, his ridiculing tone masking a hint of genuine curiosity. Harry shook his head and Malfoy let out a small, mocking laugh. “Funny. So they trust you even less than I thought.”

A part of Harry was disconcerted by what Malfoy had said. Sirius had never been known for keeping secrets from him, and their mystery surrounding Malfoy’s presence at the house had been eating away at him since their encounter over the summer. Was he finally losing their trust?

“I don’t-”

He was cut off by a sudden knock to the side by an overly energetic third year catching a quaffle tossed from across the hall, and the impact caused Harry to finally lose grip of his notes and essay papers, scattering them across the floor. The crowd parted slightly as he bent, disgruntled, to begin collecting them. He looked up to see that Malfoy had also knelt down and was facing him at eye level, slowly gathering together Harry’s papers one by one.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that they didn’t talk to you about it? I mean, maybe you’re not as much of the  _ chosen one _ as you thought.”

He took a moment to glance at one of the pages of Harry’s notes, chuckling slightly at a doodled caricature of Professor Binns in the margin.

“You don’t know anything, Malfoy,” Harry said, hurriedly gathering his things off of the dusty floor.

“I know more than you, apparently.”

Malfoy roughly handed Harry his notes, managing to fit in one more condescending smirk as for a moment within the action, faces almost close enough for their foreheads to touch. Harry’s heart raced (out of anger, of course), and he was thoroughly prepared to give Malfoy a piece of his mind, but it was too late. Draco Malfoy had been swallowed by the crowd once more, and as Harry righted himself, collecting his papers back into one arm, he could no longer see the top of Malfoy’s head through the corridor of hurried students.

The conversation had been so hurried and confusing that Harry almost hadn’t taken notice of one particular aspect of Malfoy’s movements.  _ Almost.  _

Even while gathering Harry’s papers, feigning assistance, Malfoy’s attention had been divided. One hand on his left sleeve, holding the cuff tightly over his wrist so that Harry could not catch a glimpse of whatever lay underneath. Whether Malfoy had a secret allegiance with Voldemort or not, Harry knew this much: he’d grown increasingly closer to uncovering whatever this boy had to hide. And, clutching his now dust-coated essay pages, he was increasingly determined to find out what it was.

He moved to brush away a strand of hair from his forehead before realizing that there was nothing there- the phantom touch of where a piece of Draco’s hair had flicked against his face not a minute before. Then followed the flow of the crowd back to the Gryffindor common room, wherein there would be much to think about for quite some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can’t stay true to the source material without highlighting the fact that harry potter is a complete moron


	9. Out on the Rocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius Black and Remus Lupin consider many important things. Harry Potter utilizes critical thinking for the first time in his life.

“It’s about time we ask Dumbledore to let us check in on him,” Remus said one October morning before the sun had fully risen. Sirius turned to look at him, still half-asleep and tangled in wool blankets. 

“Remus,” he muttered, throat dry from sleep. “Is that wise?”

“Like you know anything about wise,” Remus said, sliding softly out of bed, hitting Sirius with a gust of cold from the surrounding room before Remus gently pulled the displaced blankets back into place behind him.

Annoyed at the early disturbance but now irreversibly awake, Sirius pushed up into a sitting position and eyed Remus, who was at the window pulling open the curtains. Blue morning light washed into the room and it made Sirius all the more aware of how cold his hands were.

“I know you were worried about the kid, but-”

“I  _ am  _ worried.”

“I  _ know,  _ Remus.”

Remus had all of a sudden become very fascinated with the wardrobe door handle, and he turned it back and forth with one hand all the while refusing to look Sirius in the eye.

“I don’t trust whatever Dumbledore is planning with him.”

At this, Sirius let out a bitter laugh, a hand flying up in resignation. Remus did not turn to look at him but Sirius still caught a glimpse of him grimacing.

“Sixteen years and  _ now  _ is when you decide to stop trusting Dumbledore?”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“It was awfully simple when the man decided to let me rot in Azkaban for twelve years of my life.”

Remus turned now, finally, but did not argue further. He’d heard the slight tremble in Sirius’ voice at the previous outburst, although Sirius had not meant for it to happen. He watched unsteadily as Remus came and sat, facing him, on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t want Draco to have to go through anything like what either of us has been through,” he said finally, quietly, and then Sirius felt his cold hand caught lightly between Remus’ fingers. “That’s all.”

And he looked so tired when he said it. Those thin scars creasing over an endlessly furrowed brow. Sirius knew he did too- could picture the way the dark circles carved his face apart. It was almost ridiculous, sometimes, how even wrapped securely in each other’s arms, neither ever seemed to manage a restful night of sleep. 

“You know what’s funny?” Sirius said, and felt an index finger tighten over his knuckles. “Harry hasn’t talked about Draco at all in his letters this year. I’m used to having to skim over paragraphs of complaints about how  _ Malfoy did this  _ and  _ I can’t stand Malfoy  _ and shit like that, but this year? It’s like he doesn’t even exist.”

“Wonder if Draco’s stopped acting up as much at school.”

“The only werewolf  _ I  _ know was a total teacher’s pet. Maybe it’s some undiscovered side effect.”

Remus frowned, then smiled, then frowned again and finally let out a small laugh. His eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling where the gaudy wallpaper was beginning to peel away to reveal patchy drywall below and Sirius followed his gaze. The walls of Sirius’ room were relatively unchanged since his departure from the house in his teens- that is to say, covered from floor to ceiling with magazine cutouts of muggle swimsuit models (both men and women). His desk was in a corner near the door, yellowing decades-old school assignments buried under recent Ministry and Order documents. 

On the far end of the desk- two photos in simple frames, tilted so as to be out of sight from the prying eyes of family members. The first one was enchanted with movement but unable to speak- the hazy, slightly blurred image of James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin falling onto each other, smiling widely with arms over each other’s backs in front of a now-foreclosed shop somewhere in Diagon Alley. The photo was marked with a shapeless burn covering the far right side- an orange-black scorch mark where Peter Pettigrew had been symbolically removed after his betrayal was uncovered. 

The other framed photo was frozen in time- a polaroid, remnant of a brief phase Lupin had gone through in the late 70s where he’d been obsessed with collecting muggle artifacts. It was from Lily and James’ wedding- Remus and Sirius sitting closely on a bench in front of the lake, leaning in for warmth. Sirius had one arm linked through Remus’ and his free arm pointing wildly at himself- mouth half open (photo taken in the midst of the exclamation  _ ‘Best Man!’ _ which was a title he’d accepted with pride). James was behind the camera- Sirius remembered how he had struggled with the process of focusing the lens. Both of them were smiling in a way Sirius was not sure he remembered how to do.

Remus seemed uncomfortable with the silence all of a sudden, knowing what the both of them were thinking. He patted Sirius’ hand and then stood up, taking the warmth with him. Sirius felt like ice again.

“You should get up soon. I think Tonks and Moody are coming through this morning.”

He was back at the wardrobe, door flung open this time, briskly leafing through the hanging clothing for an applicable shirt. Sirius watched silently. Judging his face, which had not lost that stiff look of lingering concern.

“Hey, if you want to check in on Draco, I won’t stop you. Hell, I’ll even help.”

From the wardrobe, Remus withdrew a shirt and a dark green overcoat, the latter of which Sirius recognized as his own but made no move to stop Remus from borrowing it. 

“No, you were…” -pause to push closed the wardrobe door- “You were right. It’s not wise. Doubt Draco even wants anything to do with us. An accused war criminal and publicly recognized werewolf paying him a visit at school? Sounds like a nightmare.”

“A nightmare I’d gladly take part in if you wanted me to.”

A shake of the head as Remus crossed the room to the bathroom doorway. Brief glance around with one hand gripped tightly to the doorframe. Finally looking Sirius in the eye.

“...Sirius?”

“What?”

Somewhere outside, a flock of geese approached, just out of view of the townhouse window but easily audible in the distance through its thin walls.

“Just because Harry’s not talking to you about Draco doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about him. If I know the boy even remotely, he’s probably taken it upon himself to figure out what’s going on with Malfoy on his own terms.”

And the two of them had tried so hard to keep Malfoy’s werewolf-ness a secret, even when the boy had treated them like garbage that night in July. Even with all the looks of betrayal Harry had given them, as if he couldn’t believe that Sirius, of all people, was keeping secrets from him.

“Wish he’d leave the kid alone.”

“You never know. Sometimes being lonely is the worst thing of all.”

No two people knew that fact better, Sirius thought, than Remus and himself. He heard the bathroom door click shut, and although he knew that Remus would scold him for it, Sirius found himself settling back down beneath the covers, drifting uncertainly into a dreamless bout of morning sleep.

…

It was routine by this point- a hasty, obsessive routine that had attracted more than a few moments of annoyance from the exasperated Ron and Hermione. And Harry tried to explain it, every time, but was always (inexplicably!) met with eye rolls and dismissal. As if it wasn’t normal to use an enchanted map to trace every remotely suspicious action of your school rival.

He’d been using the Marauder’s Map to follow Draco’s footstep trails every day of October so far. In his defense, Malfoy had an extremely suspicious daily routine. Lingering in Professor Snape’s dismal Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom even after school was over. Periodic visits to Dumbledore’s office that Harry could just not figure out- they’d even passed each other once, Malfoy catching his gaze before glancing quickly away, face stiff and emotionless, walking out of Dumbledore’s office just as Harry was coming in for one of his weekly meetings. On the map, Harry saw Malfoy trek down to the lake frequently, the marks of his footprints staying there, motionless, until well after dark.

But the most disconcerting event had occurred on an evening in late September- it was a complete accident that Harry had witnessed it on the map to begin with. He’d been looking through it absentmindedly as an excuse to avoid his homework when he caught a brief glimpse of Malfoy’s footprints entering a small storage room in the dungeons. He watched them curiously, noticed a slight shuffling as if Malfoy was struggling for balance. And then, bafflingly- he vanished off the map entirely. He did not return until the next day, where when Harry next checked the map, he was back in the Slytherin dormitory as though nothing had happened.

When the event had occurred, Harry had watched avidly, uncertain of what he was looking at. It was impossible to apparate off of school grounds, not that he thought Malfoy was capable of apparating on his own in the first place. Was he entering some secret room like the Room of Requirement? This theory was quickly abandoned, as Harry had investigated the storage room himself afterwards- no residual magic, only spare cauldrons and empty jars, and Harry was quickly evicted from the room by Filch, who was very self-satisfied to have encountered a student sneaking around without reasonable explanation.

On this particular night, mid-October, Malfoy was down at the lake like usual. Motionless, feet facing out towards the water- it was usually around nine at night when he started to make his way back. Night was beginning to fall already- Hermione and Ron had long since given up trying to convince Harry to leave the map alone. Out the dormitory window, Harry could see the lake and the jagged edges of the forbidden forest, but it was too far down to discern any particular details. 

The sun was low in the sky, and it was a combination of boredom, nagging curiosity, and the residual evening brightness that Harry grabbed the map and the invisibility cloak, announced he was going for a walk, and crept down the brick stairs out onto the castle grounds.

The cold air was harsher than Harry had expected, and he found himself wishing he’d put on an extra sweater before he’d left, shivering even with the extra warmth of the cloak on top of him. He did not encounter anyone else on the walk out to the lake. It was just himself and the fading daylight.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, honestly, but as he approached Malfoy in a small clearing overlooking the rocky lake shore, it was becoming increasingly clear that he wasn’t about to interrupt much of anything. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, crept through the final group of trees, and emerged to discover that Malfoy was simply sitting by the lake shore, reading. 

No suspicious Death Eater rituals. No secret communing with the enemy. Just sitting with a book on his lap, the lake’s gentle waves lapping up against his shoes.

Harry was about to turn and go, give up, return to the Gryffindor dormitory and try to assure his friends that he’d just been on a walk and most certainly not stalking Draco Malfoy, when one very particular detail caught his eye. 

Malfoy’s sleeves were rolled up. 

It was a completely unconscious gesture, something Malfoy had most definitely reserved for moments of solitude only- absentmindedly pushing his sleeves back to better turn the pages. But it was the first time since Malfoy’s appearance at Grimmauld Place, that Harry had a proper, clear view of Malfoy’s left arm.

There was no Dark Mark, no, but it took Harry several moments of squinting, of steadily creeping closer to try and catch sight of Malfoy’s pale arm in the light, before he could determine what  _ did  _ mark Malfoy’s skin.

Two large, dotted, crescent-shaped scars, healed deeply into a pale red color on Draco Malfoy’s forearm. He’d seen it before- couldn’t quite place it but it was at the front of his mind. Sirius,  _ no,  _ Remus! A moment in his third year where the Professor’s shirt collar had fallen aside, revealing a bite mark identical to this one at the base of his neck, and suddenly everything was falling into place and before he could stop himself-

“Oh  _ jeez,  _ Malfoy, you’re-  _ werewolf?!” _

Harry clapped a hand over his mouth, but it was far too late. Malfoy’s eyes practically popped out of his head, standing up so fast he almost tripped, dropping his book into the lake water as he reached for his wand. Harry, panicked, made to run but Malfoy heard the noise and quickly directed a spell in Harry’s direction- a hastily-cast halting jinx that caused Harry to fall face first onto the rocky beach, feeling a dull impact in his nose as his head hit the ground.

Malfoy pulled the invisibility cloak off of him and clutched it in his hands, staring wide-eyed and sputtering down at him while Harry struggled to turn himself over, grappling for his glasses which were,  _ oh, great,  _ shattered from the impact as well.

“Potter, what the  _ hell  _ do you think you’re doing?”

It was an extremely valid question, but the amount of rage in Malfoy’s voice was enough to make Harry flinch. He reached behind him for his wand with the intention of repairing his glasses, but Malfoy interpreted it as an attempt to escape and grabbed Harry roughly by the front of the sweater, pulling him upright. A cold breeze blew in from across the lake and Harry became aware that his nose was bleeding heavily. If his glasses weren’t broken beyond repair, he might have even been able to see the blood spattering down in small drops onto the rocks below.

_ “Why  _ are you here?  _ What  _ do you know about me?”

Malfoy’s voice shook with both anger and fear. His face was so close that Harry had a clear view of him even without the help of his glasses. He could see thin scars in clearer definition now, sharing a similar color and depth to the bite on his arm. Had Malfoy given them to himself?

“Is that why you were at Sirius’-?” Harry coughed, his consonants slurred by the nosebleed. His hands fell shakily upon the back of Draco’s wrists, trying to remove them from the front of his shirt so that he could back away, but Draco’s fingers were wrapped tightly around his sweater in rage.

_ “None of this  _ was your business, Potter, you had no right to-”

“Oh, Merlin, and the werewolf books at the library as well-”

He knew that this was an excellent time for him to shut up, but Harry could not stop the words from slipping out as the pieces rapidly fell into place. Draco glanced wildly around as if to check whether Harry had been accompanied by anyone else or not, and then, to Harry’s immense surprise, the rage began to fade from his face.

“I thought for certain that you already knew,” he said, his eyes fixed on Harry’s forehead but not meeting his eyes. “Thought the blood traitor and his- his  _ associate-  _ had told you all about what happened to me.”

Harry could not suppress a small, indignant laugh.

“I  _ wish  _ they’d told me!” he said, his hands sliding roughly off Draco’s arms and onto the ground to steady himself. “I spent the last few months thinking you were there to kill us, not- not there to beg for help!” 

Malfoy let go of him abruptly. Harry slipped backwards onto the ground, but it took several more moments for him to scramble away from Malfoy, as his legs had somehow become tangled up underneath Malfoy’s throughout the entire ordeal. Malfoy, having just become aware of the discomfort of their situation, had moved backwards as well, and his moment of distraction gave Harry time to reach for his wand without interruption. 

“I wasn’t-” Malfoy turned red in the face, sputtering for words. “They  _ made  _ me stay with them, I didn’t  _ beg  _ for anything!” 

“Right. Very threatening, they are,” Harry said sarcastically, taking the opportunity to repair his glasses and wipe away at his nose, which was still trailing blood.

“Shut up.”

“I assume Voldemort and his lot didn’t take very kindly to the whole thing that went down in the Ministry?”

“I said, shut up!”

Harry realized, suddenly and harshly, that he’d gone too far. Draco had staggered back on the rocks, face contorted with rage, and Harry’s invisibility cloak was right there within reach. He could easily leave now, but-

“I’m sorry,” he said, and like everything else he’d said that evening, it slipped out without any warning. Malfoy looked straight at him, eyebrows raised in skepticism.

“No you’re not,” he said bluntly, and stood.

“I am! It’s just…” he pulled the invisibility cloak towards him while he searched for the right words. “It must be difficult, right?”

_ “What?” _

Incredulity.

“Being… you know. Er, Werewolf. Full moon. Transformation. Etcetera. It must hurt, right?”

Well, it wasn’t the  _ most  _ out of line thing that Harry had said that evening. Malfoy gave him a disgusted glance and seemed to be making to leave.

“I despise you, Potter. I don’t know why you think I’d tell you anything,” he said, and began to walk off.

“No, no, you’re right, it was-”

Behind Harry, he heard the footsteps stop. He turned to see Draco staring like he was trying to gauge Harry’s motive.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

Draco took a deep breath, and made his choice.

“It hurts quite a bit. I’m leaving now. Don’t tell anyone what you heard tonight. Don’t follow me on your way back. In fact, don’t follow me ever again.”

And then, faster than Harry had anticipated, he was gone. On the ground, he could see Malfoy’s footsteps retreating on the Marauder’s Map. He gathered his things, wiped away at his nose with one sleeve, momentarily forgetting about the possibilities of magical healing. He was about to leave, carefully planning in his head a route back where he’d be sure to avoid encountering Malfoy again, when something floating in the lake’s shallow water caught his eye.

It was the book Malfoy had dropped earlier, waterlogged and forgotten in the chaos. Harry reached in and grabbed the book, shaking as much lake water out of it as he could and reading the leather-bound front cover.  _ Love Amongst Monsters _ , the cover illustration indicating that this was some kind of schmaltzy romance novel (a long-haired man clutched in the arms of a very vampiric-looking woman). Harry suppressed the urge to utilize the opportunity to antagonize Draco’s literary tastes with Hermione, who would surely have a field day with this discovery. Instead, he quickly charmed the book to remove the excess water, gathered his things, and pulled the invisibility cloak back over himself. 

Nobody saw him return to the Gryffindor dorms. He crept in quietly, and by the time his friends had noticed his return, he had already cleaned up his bleeding nose, storing the book and the cloak and everything else safely back in his trunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's true... draco malfoy reads the harry potter universe's equivalent of twilight


	10. Books, Secrets, and Both in Combination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry struggles to act normally with the information he has just learned. Draco is reunited with his responsibilities.

Harry Potter had never been one for keeping secrets, and he was well aware that his friends would attempt to exploit this fact. His stealthy re-entrance to the Gryffindor dormitories the prior evening had been for naught, because he woke up the following morning to the sound of Ron accosting him at his bedside, demanding to know why his sweater sleeves were caked, pollen-like, in dried blood. 

“ _ Ron!  _ Stop going through my things, will you?”

Harry fumbled for his glasses, praying that Ron had not also discovered the novel he had fished from the lake. 

“I wasn’t going through your things! It was sticking out of your luggage like a crime scene!”

Sitting up, Harry saw Ron crouched by his open trunk, gingerly holding up the bloodstained sleeve of the grey sweater, which Harry had carelessly forgotten to clean the night before. The ruckus had drawn the attention of the other boys in the dormitory, and across the room, Dean Thomas leaned forward curiously, hands still preoccupied with fastening his school tie.

“Someone punch you, Harry?” Dean asked, and Harry flushed, pushing Ron away and grabbing the sweater back in order to clear the bloodstain away. 

“...fell while I was walking last night,” he muttered, an excuse he was certain nobody in the dormitory bought. Ron had a quizzical, almost amused look on his face, and for a moment Harry was positive that the boy was going to lurch forward to investigate Harry’s belongings further, but they made eye contact and Ron must have caught some seriously frantic look on Harry’s face because he just shrugged loosely and stalked back to get ready for the school day.

Harry was the last one out of the dormitory that morning, although Ron usually insisted on waiting for him. Ron had leaned in the doorframe, waiting for Harry to gather his things, but Harry waved him on, assuring him that he’d catch up. Obviously suspicious, Ron obliged, giving one last apprehensive glance at Harry before slipping out the door.

As soon as Harry was alone, he forced himself to breathe a small sigh of relief. He took one last glance behind him, making certain, and then dug Malfoy’s book out from where he’d buried it under a stack of folded shirts, tucking it into his book bag. It seemed that disconcerting books had become a theme this semester- the strange romance novel sliding into place next to the Half Blood Prince’s textbook- and he wasn’t sure whether odd spells and margin notes were more or less suspicious than the notion of Draco Malfoy reading love stories in his spare time. 

He’d checked  _ Love Amongst Monsters  _ thoroughly the night before, but there had been no suspicious details, not even anything concealed by magic. It was a completely average, unenchanting romance novel in terms of both plot and magical capacity. He wasn’t even sure what he planned to do with it- returning the book to Malfoy felt ridiculous somehow, but there was no other use for it except, perhaps, as practice material for  _ incendio  _ and similar charms.

Of course, the book was the least disconcerting element of his encounter the night before. Harry was still kicking himself for his delayed realization of Malfoy’s lycanthropy  _ (really,  _ why else would he have been visiting Remus and Sirius?) but the new discovery had done little to dissuade Harry’s concern over Draco’s suspicious behavior. Sure, he didn’t have the Dark Mark or anything formal like that, but the possibility that Malfoy might be in collusion with Voldemort was still all too present in Harry’s mind. Being a werewolf only accounted for a very small percentage of the level of skulking around that Harry had observed from Malfoy over the past months. Something else was going on, he was certain of it.

And yet, for some reason, he did not feel particularly inclined to consult his friends about it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ron and Hermione to keep a secret- hell, he told them pretty much everything, and trusted them wholeheartedly to do the same. But every time the opportunity had arisen to divulge the truth of what he’d learned the night before, he’d picture Draco again- gripping the front of Harry’s sweater, wild panicked look in his eyes at the word ‘werewolf’ alone, shaking like a leaf. A type of horror that Harry had previously not even been aware Draco Malfoy was capable of.

Faintly, from the distant downstairs, Harry heard his name being called- Hermione, from the sound of it, annoyed at the prospect of being late to class. He heard the tapping of footfall on the stone staircase leading up to the dormitory, likely his friends coming back up to figure out what was taking him so long, and quickly gathered his things, dashing down to meet them on the stairwell and hurry to class.

“So you hurt your nose, Harry?” Hermione asked (attempting to sound casual) as they walked to Defense Against the Dark Arts, and it was quite clear that her and Ron had been discussing him behind his back.

“Wasn’t a big deal,” Harry insisted, quickening his pace to stay caught up with Hermione, who was a notoriously fast walker. It was sunny out today, the courtyard chilled with a brisk early-fall wind, and the chime of the clocktower indicated that they were now officially late to class. 

“Yes, but why didn’t you go to the infirmary instead of being all secretive about it?” Hermione pressed, turning to walk backwards so that she could look Harry pointedly in the face, robes fluttering slightly in the wind. 

“Didn’t think of it at the time,” said Harry, and she scoffed, rolling her eyes in disbelief.  _ “Seriously,  _ Hermione!”

“You didn’t pick a fight with Malfoy, did you?”

Harry’s heart lurched and Hermione jumped on the opportunity.

“We know you’ve been following him around with the map and your Dad’s cloak!”

On instinct, Harry turned to Ron for backup, but he raised a hand slightly, defensively.

“You’re not exactly subtle about it,” he said, glancing nervously between Hermione and the ground as though the two had been planning some sort of intervention before Harry had joined them. “I mean, you’re always talking about him and following him on the map, so we figured it was only a matter of time before…”

“I did not get punched by Draco Malfoy!” Harry shouted, slightly too loud- caught an odd glance from a group of Hufflepuff first years who were hurrying to class on the other end of the courtyard. “I was out by the lake and tripped and bashed my face on a rock.  _ Honest.” _

“And you were out by the lake  _ because… _ ”

“Because I wanted to go on a walk!” Harry insisted and Hermione put her hands on her hips, still walking backwards so that she could glare at him until Ron moved forward, warning hand on her shoulder to prevent her from backing into one of the courtyard oak trees.

“You know I still don’t believe you,” she said over her shoulder. “And neither does Ron.” 

Ron, too irresolute to voice any opposition to what Hermione was saying, gave Harry a weak, apologetic smile, running a hand through his mess of red hair. Harry frowned at the both of them.

“You  _ should  _ believe me,” he said, although his hand tightened around his book bag strap in guilt. He knew both of them could tell he was lying, and were quickly reformulating a strategy for how to worm the information out of him.

“I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with Malfoy anyway,” Hermione said after a pause, as the three of them reached the stairwell to the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower. “He’s just some privileged pureblood git. Doesn’t really strike me as Death Eater material, or whatever you seem to think.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Harry said, unwilling to give Hermione the satisfaction of any further detail. Besides, he wasn’t eager to repeat a conversation that he’d had with Ron and Hermione nearly a dozen times since he’d first encountered Malfoy over the summer. He was getting tired of dealing with their exasperated dismissal of his theories about Malfoy, and he had thought Hermione was about ready to drop the subject as well. Apparently this had been far too much of an overestimation.

As expected, they were welcomed very unkindly by Professor Snape, who deducted a whole twenty-five house points for their delay.

“Disruption of the class,” he droned as they quickly took their seats at the back of the room, illuminated rather imposingly by the light of a projector slideshow on non-verbal spells. From a Slytherin desk across the classroom, Crabbe and Goyle snickered at the trio’s being put on the spot, although their taunts were quite easy to ignore these days. Harry was still growing accustomed to seeing them outside of the company of Malfoy- the two seemed to have attached themselves to another high-status Slytherin group. Meanwhile Malfoy had taken to sitting despondently near the back of most classes with Blaise Zabini, who Harry had only met once, at a dismal meeting of Slughorn’s on the Hogwarts express. He’d taken him to be a bit of a haughty, elegant sort, condescending to Harry and Hermione but vocally distasteful of the pureblood supremacy of some of his Slytherin peers. He was overall not anything like the type of person Harry was expected Malfoy to be drawn to. Yet the two seemed relatively good-natured towards each other, and Harry could not help but wonder if Malfoy’s old friends knew about his affliction and no longer wanted to be associated with him. 

Harry realized all too suddenly that he was overanalyzing again. He quickly returned his focus to the slideshow before Snape could catch him in his distraction, although not before Malfoy glanced up momentarily from his note-taking and caught Harry’s eye. Panicked, Harry looked back down at his desk before he had a chance to read the expression on Malfoy’s face. He shuffled his parchment straight and forced himself to pay attention to what Snape was saying. Heart, inexplicably, pounding.

...

“I need to speak with you after class, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape muttered behind Draco as he strode past during work time, under the guise of evaluating Draco’s ability to cast a nonverbal spell. Quite honestly, Draco was grateful for an excuse to stay behind, because if he had to make eye contact with Potter in the castle halls one more time he thought he might simply run into the Forbidden Forest and never return.

Every time he glanced up from his work, it seemed that Potter was giving him an odd, obsessive side-eye. Draco was still furious over the events of the previous evening, although more at his own carelessness than anything else. He couldn’t fault Potter for being a nosy, gossiping asshole any more than he could fault the full moon for returning every month. It was just in the nature of things. But none of this helped the fact that Draco was certain the whole school now knew about what had happened to him. Although nobody had confronted him about it yet, every glance from a fellow classmate was putting him on edge.

At least Blaise was feigning obliviousness. Draco knew that he must know at least some of the details by this point, but Blaise had never acted like Draco’s sudden detachment from all his previous social circles was anything more than family troubles, which wasn’t completely incorrect. He’d even seemed rather excited about Draco’s sudden, inexplicable separation, and was much more eager to criticize the Death Eater family members of some of their Slytherin classmates as soon as they were out of earshot. Thus far, Draco could not tell whether Blaise was much more ignorant than Draco had taken him for, or knew about Draco’s condition and simply didn’t care. And although Draco often went out of his way to avoid Blaise and everyone else at Hogwarts, he was grateful for it. Almost certain he was grateful.

The two were facing each other, a good distance apart in a corner of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, attempting to disarm each other nonverbally. Blaise had been successful with nearly every attempt, while Draco had not managed to complete the spell even once.

“Close this time,” Blaise said as an attempt from Draco made the air quiver slightly. “You’ve got to focus on it more.” 

“I don’t need your pity, Zabini,” Draco said, and he’d been wholeheartedly serious about it (as always) but the words just made Blaise laugh.

“Just trying to help you succeed,  _ Malfoy,”  _ he said, dragging out Draco’s name in a mocking criticism of his own voice. When Draco did not react to this, Blaise glanced back over Draco’s shoulder, where Snape was looming over the next pair of students a short distance away. “What does Professor Snape want with you, anyway?”

Draco withheld the urge to tell Blaise it was none of his business, knowing that whatever he said would make no difference anyway.

“Probably something ridiculous like grades,” Draco lied, trying his best to sound contemptuous. Blaise opened his mouth to press further, but Draco attempted the spell once more and Blaise’s wand leapt out of his hand, clattering to the floor at his feet. Blaise broke into a smile, bending down to pick it up.

“Not bad,” he said, straightening and brushing dust off the wand. “Of course, there’s got to be some  _ velocity  _ to it-”

He demonstrated, and Draco’s wand flew across the room, where Blaise caught it in his hand, gave it a dramatic little twirl, and then tossed it back to Draco.

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco said, and leveled his arm to try again.

…

When the classroom cleared entirely, Professor Snape closed the wide oak doors shut with a rather sinister-sounding thud. Draco sat up on a countertop against one of the classroom walls, within the dim reach of the golden afternoon light coming in from one of the tower’s high windows. Snape eyed him for a moment and then moved to begin clearing the classroom, wasting no time in enchanting quills and textbooks and practice dummies back into their proper spots.

“We have been avoiding an important matter of conversation for several months now,” he said briskly, striding bat-like to the front of the classroom where he began to disassemble the projector. “That is to say, when you plan on returning to contact with your family.” 

Draco’s stomach dropped. Feathery spots immediately began to shift in the periphery of his vision, and he flung out one hand to steady himself. Snape must have noticed his panic, but did not address it in any way.

“I’ve been in contact with your mother,” he continued. “As you know. She’s been very worried about you. As expected.”

“I-”

Draco’s voice broke. Snape continued without allowing Draco room for interjection.

“I understand your hesitation to face the consequences that will come with returning home,” Snape said, stacking a pile of books on his desk as though this conversation was nothing more than idle small talk. “But I feel as though you deserve to know this much at least-”

At last, he paused. Staring darkly at Draco in the afternoon light.

“Your little run-away expedition has put your family in more danger than ever before.”

It was too much. Draco didn’t lose consciousness- he didn’t believe he did, at least. But he barely felt himself being guided towards an empty desk, being sat down on the desk chair abruptly by Snape, who was clearly unused to assisting people in this manner.

“I- how- what’s going to happen to them?” he asked dumbly, head still spinning. After verifying that Draco was not in any danger of blacking out again, Snape returned to his methodical classroom cleanup. Talking with his back to Draco while he reopened the rest of the window shades.

“You were an integral aspect of the Dark Lord’s plan, you remember,” Snape said as light began to refill the classroom, casting a too-bright sheen onto the furniture and floor. “His orders were that all the necessary preparations must be made this year.”

“But they were, er,  _ are,”  _ Draco insisted, running through the all-too-familiar instructions in his head. He’d received them from the Dark Lord himself, in the cold grey parlor of Draco’s own home. Link the vanishing cabinets. Signal to the Death Eaters. And when the time came, cast the spell that would-

“I have been helping you as best I can,” said Snape, referring quite clearly to their visit to Borgin and Burke's several months prior. It was the first time Draco had seen the first of two vanishing cabinets. “But you must know that the Dark Lord does not fully trust either of us. Won’t trust us. Unless-”

“Unless I go back,” Draco said miserably, feeling his hands begin to shake.

“Unless you’re able to _prove_ that he can trust you.”

“Why can’t it be someone else?” he said helplessly, and Snape avoided his desperate gaze. “What’s he going to do to my family that-”

“The Dark Lord believes you know too much, Draco,” Snape said, and made no attempt to soften his words. “And he plans to use your mother and father’s lives as bargaining chips in the matter.”

“I’m such an idiot.”

Snape paused, allowing a small amount of surprise to slip through for the first time.

“Mr. Malfoy-”

“All of this is ridiculous! None of this would have happened if I’d just-”

“I don’t believe it wise to dwell on regrets at this point,” Snape said, and Draco, who had half stood up in his anger, sat back down.

“You have an important choice to make, Draco. I’ve done everything in my power to simplify things. But ultimately-”

“Enough of this,” Draco said abruptly. Snape raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, watching the boy struggle dizzily to his feet. “I’m leaving.”

“Draco.”

“Just tell him I’ll do it. He’s not k- I won’t let him anything to my family. But I-”

He paused at the door, thinking furiously through a barrage of confusion, biting back words, all sorts of things he wanted to but knew he should not say.

“I don’t want to see them again. Please don’t make me see them again.”

“I’ll do what I can. Before you leave, th-”

It was cut off with the slamming of a single heavy wooden door. Draco walked until he was several flights of stairs down, ducking into an alcove next to the stairwell. He placed one hand, then his whole head, against the stone wall. It was cold where it met his skin. He tried to take deep, regulating breaths, but they came out shallow and shaky no matter how hard he tried.  _ How stupid.  _ To think he could have run away from the matter forever. That everything would be fixed as long as he went on a couple shopping trips with Professor Snape and tried to stay out of the public eye.  _ Stupid,  _ that he thought leaving would keep his family safe.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there. Maybe a couple minutes, maybe more. It felt like longer, but when he emerged at the bottom of the stairwell, the afternoon light looked exactly the same as it had in Snape’s classroom. Golden and slanted and accompanied with a slight chill that rattled the castle windows.

Before exiting the tower proper, he ran his hands through his hair and rubbed away at his face in case he encountered anyone in the halls. He’d just re-assumed a seemingly casual appearance when he stepped out of the hall, made to leave and nearly leapt several feet into the air.

Leaning against the wall where the stairwell opened into the hall was Harry Potter, and Draco had nearly missed him entirely had he not turned around one last time before he walked away. Potter seemed almost as surprised as Draco was, tripping over his own feet and nearly dropping his book bag as Draco furiously sputtered-

“You were eavesdropping on me?  _ Again!?”  _

“NO!” Harry said, swearing, getting a tighter hold of his things and then straightening, green eyes wide and terrified. “I didn’t hear anything, I swear, in fact, I didn’t even know if you were in there at all, but I figured I would stay so that I could-”

“So that you could  _ eavesdrop!”  _

“So that I could-!”

He reached into his book bag, seemingly looking around for something. Draco watched, feeling quite horrified in anticipation of whatever Potter was going to produce. And then, with a little strained smile, Harry pulled out a book from his bag and held it out for Draco to take, and  _ oh no, _ he’d forgotten all about it last night, must have left it at the lake and-

“That’s not mine,” said Draco. Lying through his teeth.

Harry Potter, the poor idiot, seemed immensely confused.

“But you left it at the lake, last night, and-”

“Nope,” Draco said, and began to walk away as fast as he could possibly manage. 

“I saw you reading it!” Potter said, quickly picking up his pace to follow Draco.

“Maybe it belongs to that Granger girl,” Draco suggested over his shoulder. “Seems like the sort of garbage she’d enjoy.”

He heard Potter let out a frustrated, annoyed laugh behind him and all of a sudden he was pulled to a complete stop because Potter, in his attempts to halt Draco’s hasty exit, had grabbed Draco’s wrist with one hand. For a moment, Draco, shocked and furious beyond the extent of words, just stared at the hand silently, fingers wrapped tightly against his bones, just barely grazing the very uppermost point of his scar from Greyback. Finally, Potter, who seemed similarly shocked, broke the silence.

“Just take your book back, Malfoy, it’s not a big deal.”

“Keep it, why don’t you?”

And Potter made no motion to keep holding onto Draco’s wrist, his arm falling by his side as Draco pulled away and continued his walk down the hallway. He heard a heavy sigh behind him, and the shuffling of what must have been Potter returning the book to his bag. 

“Malfoy. I’m sorry. I  _ swear  _ I wasn’t eavesdropping on you.”

The words almost stopped him again. He sounded surprisingly genuine. Like maybe he really was telling the truth, if only Draco extended his disbelief slightly. But Draco knew better than to extend his disbelief.

“I’m leaving, Potter!”

“And I know what you think about me, but I haven’t told anyone, either! About… you know…”

Draco quickened his pace, speaking out loudly in front of him so that his words echoed back to Potter down the hall.

“You really expect me to believe that?”

Potter’s footsteps stopped. Draco was no longer being pursued.

“It’s the truth. I just wish I could prove to you somehow that-”

“You can prove it to me by leaving me  _ alone.”  _

And then Draco rounded the corner, stepped into the courtyard, and quickly ducked into an adjacent hall before there was any chance that he could be followed further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 10 arrives at last. nothing much to say this time around but i will announce that i was eating some very delicious soup while working on this chapter and i believe it greatly positively influenced my work ethic.
> 
> thank you so much to everybody who's stuck with this story so far and also to newcomers! i appreciate your kind words so much more than i can ever express


	11. Dark October Chill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius Black and Draco Malfoy are both visited by an unexpected guest.

Half-asleep, weighed down by heavy blankets that did nothing to trap in the heat, Sirius had thought that Remus was clutching him in his sleep. But this did not make sense, because Remus had left the night before, travelling north towards Hogwarts on the last train of the night, promising to return the following Monday.

“Muggle transport, I think,” he’d said while tightening a ragged wool scarf around his neck. “Safer that way.”

“It would be faster on the motorbike. Apparition. Anything, really,” Sirius had said, watching him from the stairs, trying fruitlessly to incite a petty argument so that Remus had a reason to stay a little longer. Remus was familiar with this sort of game.

“Can’t be too careful,” he said, and then, “I love you,” and then he stepped up to meet him in a lightning-quick kiss, a pithy and wintry half-second of contact. He left, or rather the night consumed him, because all that remained in the house afterwards was that cold flush of air from the closing of the front door. 

The cold was a pest that remained in the house, even when Sirius cranked up the radiator as far as it would go, turned the oven on with the door propped open until the fire alarm went off, covered himself in blankets and sat by the fireplace; he could feel the heat on his sagging shoulders but somehow it never quite managed to reach his bones.

And the arms were what woke him up the following morning, coming slowly awake, alone in his bed, in the dark, daybreak chill. He could feel them around his neck, frigid and bony, jagged nails attached to brittle fingers digging marks into the base of his chin. Still partially in the realm of sleep, he’d thought the arms belonged to Remus.

But of course, this wasn’t true.

For one thing, Remus was warm, burning up like a space heater. In their youth, sleeping together was unbearable sometimes, like touching a pot that had been left on the burner too long. But it didn’t matter as much now. Sirius had grown unaccustomed to warmth.

Another significant difference: Remus was not incorporeal.

Because as soon as Sirius was awake enough to remember that Remus was currently asleep somewhere on an overnight car to Edinburgh, he felt the arm against his neck fade away until he was half-convinced there had been nothing there at all. He rolled over, touched his own collarbone carefully. Wondering where the strange, ghostly appendage had come from. And why it felt so familiar.

He checked for marks on the bathroom mirror. Nothing on his neck or his chin, just the memory of where he could feel the nails pressed up onto his skin. And then he looked at his face, something he had not done in a while, apparently, because his own reflection felt unfamiliar. Eyes heavy, face drawn in a way that he had not seen it since his time in Azkaban. God, did he need a haircut? Remus had never said anything about the length. Then again, he wasn’t even sure if Remus noticed that sort of thing.

The ground floor was even colder, of course. As the months faded into autumn, whatever perpetual hypothermia Sirius was experiencing had worsened. He had a hard time moving his hand joints some days, shivering and struggling to tear open tea bags, turn book pages. He hadn’t told anyone the extent of it, but he was sure most of the Order knew- in small increments. The way he latched onto Remus for warmth as the sun set. The way Harry flinched, once, when he’d placed a freezing hand onto his bare shoulder despite the ninety-degree heat.

And Sirius knew why. He wasn’t an idiot- he’d never felt this kind of grasping cold before, never in his life, until the moment he slipped, shoulders first, into the veil. He had no memories of near-death, nor did he recall being pulled away from it. All he could recall was darkness, incomprehensible whispering. And then the cold that never left.

It took him two tries to light the fireplace, as though even his capacity for magic was dulled by the oppressive cold. There were quilts laid out across the couch, and Sirius pulled them around himself as he sat. It did little to help, and in a desperate attempt at conserving his heat further, he transformed into Padfoot, tucking himself into a tight ball beneath the blankets. It was still frigid. Sub-arctic. So he tried to stay still, and think of warmer times.

…

He came fully awake again at the third set of knocks upon the door. Quickly, he transformed, untangling newly human limbs from the blankets just as the handle began to rattle. Rushed halfway to the door, realized with a start that he’d left his wand in the living room (and Remus was right, you never  _ could  _ be too careful), so he quietly ran back to grab it, just in case, and opened the door, catching Albus Dumbledore with a hand half-raised to knock again. He stood still for a moment, looking Sirius up and down with mild surprise, taking in his disheveled appearance and wand, which Sirius realized quite suddenly he was holding up defensively towards his visitor.

“Good morning, Sirius. I hope my visit isn’t too much of a disturbance.”

He sounded bemused, and it irritated Sirius greatly, but he stepped aside nevertheless to let the man in.

“No. Not at all,” he said bitterly, and Dumbledore clearly registered the sarcasm but chose to ignore it.

“You’re looking rather unwell. You haven’t been drinking…?”

“I just woke up, Albus. Are you coming in?”

Dumbledore made himself right at home, taking off this ludicrous plum-colored velvet jacket he’d been wearing, swinging it over the closest dining room chair. He sat down in the same chair as Sirius closed and locked the front door, eyeing him closely from the foyer.

“Remus notified me last night that he was on his way to Hogwarts. He did not offer any specifics, but I presume-”

“To see Draco,” Sirius cut him off, coming into the living room. He grabbed one of the blankets off the couch, folding it in an attempt to make the disrepaired house appear slightly more tidy. “And shouldn’t you be there right now to receive him?”

“Severus will be meeting him just outside the castle grounds,” Dumbledore responded, watching Sirius clean up the way the sociologist intently studies his control group. “Say, do you have any brandy?”

“I don’t keep alcohol in the house anymore. Been trying to stay sober since…” He trailed off. “And for Harry, of course.”

“A noble endeavor,” Dumbledore said, and Sirius thought he caught a hint of incredulity in his tone. 

“I have tea, water, juice maybe,” said Sirius, gesturing towards the kitchen, but Dumbledore shook his head. The request had been a test, Sirius knew. Of what, he wasn’t sure.

“I can’t stay long, anyway. But I thought it was about time we spoke.”

“Oh?”

Sirius returned to the dining room but didn’t sit. Dumbledore had this odd mannerism of maintaining eye contact until the other felt forced to break it. But Sirius tried to hold steady, and stared straight back.

“I’m aware that you are unhappy with… with Harry’s present involvement in the way matters are soon to progress.”

_ Oh,  _ what an understatement that was indeed. Sirius, immediately angry, felt his hand begin to shake but forced himself to remain calm. Remus wasn’t here to stop him from doing something stupid. No guiding hand to pull him back to the surface.

“I never said I didn’t want him to be involved. It’s always been the exact opposite, right from the start. I just want him to-”

“I’m familiar with the frustrations of last year. I’ve taken necessary measures to keep the boy as informed as possible.”

Yes, yes, Sirius had heard all about Harry’s private meetings with Dumbledore through the letters from the boy. So nonchalant, his careful writing, but Harry’s pride seemed to seep through every word he wrote. Dumbledore probably had no clue how much he meant to the boy. And yet Sirius found it hard to believe, still, that these meetings, these training sessions, had truly revealed any new knowledge except for the glaringly obvious fact that Hogwarts’ headmaster was conditioning Harry Potter for war.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Sirius said, and moved to the kitchen so that he didn’t have to look at the man.

“By all means,” Dumbledore said, and politely turned to admire the moth-eaten dining room curtains.

“I just want him to be able to fight on his own terms.”

There was a staged little gap of silence.

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

And he did. Because when hadn’t any of their actions been orchestrated by Dumbledore himself? What choice had Harry ever made that broke that set of rules, of plans?

“Well. If you won’t accept my reassurance in terms of Harry’s lessons,” Dumbledore said finally. “I thought you may be interested to hear about Draco’s condition.”

“Remus is more invested than I am,” Sirius said, and once again thought of the younger Remus, the trembling child who didn’t yet know the bitter taste of wolfsbane. The way Remus had tried to reach out to Draco as if the two of them were in any way the same. “I’m still not exactly fond of him. The things him and his family have done.”

“Of course, he did save you. At the ministry.”

“You think I don’t remember that?” In the kitchen, Sirius had tried to remove the restlessness in his hands by rifling through the cabinets. They were empty. He needed to go shopping, but he wanted to wait until Remus came home so he didn’t have to go alone. “Not everything has to be transactional, Albus.”

“I think that the events of the past year have offered Draco a unique second chance.”

Sirius went to the kitchen doorway. He saw Dumbledore staring pensively out the window. Yet still staring straight at Sirius in a sense- he could see the man’s eyes, sharp, in the still-dark window’s reflection.

“I’ll be completely honest with you,” and Sirius surprised even himself with the anger that trembled in his voice. “I think you’re just excited for the opportunity to exploit the poor kid for information.”

“You’re blowing things wildly out of proportion,” Dumbledore said. His eyes narrowed.

“God, at least I’m brave enough to admit it. You’re just pretending to care,” he didn’t know where this trail of words was taking him- frightened him, almost, seeing Dumbledore’s gaze sharpen in a way that had never been directed at him in that way before. “You’ve always just pretended to care. Same with Harry, isn’t it?”

“Sirius.”

“I wish you’d leave,” Sirius said, and even he wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that.

“If I was unwelcome, you should have said so,” Dumbledore said. It was nearly inaudible. Nearly.

“Maybe you are unwelcome,” Sirius replied, thinking about the cold house, thinking about how exhausted he was but at the same time he was so  _ angry,  _ and a part of him wished he could just end Dumbledore right there instead of kicking him out like a coward. “Leave. Now.”

“Thank you for having me, Sirius,” Dumbledore said, as though nothing was wrong, as if he’d just popped in for a quick drink and a friendly chat.

“Oh, it’s been a  _ pleasure,”  _ Sirius said through clenched teeth, directing his eyes and a shivering, pointed finger quite conspicuously towards the door. Dumbledore turned, watched him closely, and  _ oh, god,  _ Sirius faltered.

“Your animosity towards me has made me lose quite a bit of sleep, Sirius,” Dumbledore said softly, like a mentor, the kind professor, the lovingly distant old fool, and Sirius was lying if he said that the man’s tone didn’t catch him by a little bit of surprise. Felt quite suddenly like the shaggy, lanky boy he’d been at school, stumbling and grinning at the far end of Dumbledore’s desk at the left arm of James (poor, dead James), preparing to clumsily lie about their latest prank to the exasperatedly smiling headmaster.

“It.. I’m not-” 

Idiotic, stumbling over his words like a child caught awake after dark. 

“I understand why, believe me,” Dumbledore continued, taking the corner of the dining room tablecloth in one fragile hand. “All of us have been through so much. You most of all. I’m afraid the worst may be yet to come, but you have to trust you’re in good hands.”

“I’m angry, Albus. And scared. So scared you don’t even know.”

The truth, at last. And it came so readily that Sirius started, wondering in a panic whether he’d been placed under some kind of spell  _ (an unforgivable curse? imperius?) _ . But no, he knew what that felt like, knew the satiny grip those sorts of spells had on the mind. This was not that. There was no magic involved. It simply felt like speaking to a father, or what Sirius imagined speaking to a father must feel like, the way the old man crossed his bony fingers and leaned in attentively, smiling at Sirius’ honesty. Taking a moment’s pause to think through the correct response. 

“What would Remus tell you to do?”

“He’d-”

Remus had always been so skilled at blind trust. Sirius knew Dumbledore had mentioned the man for this reason. After all, who else would have waited for him those twelve years, thinking he’d killed two of their closest friends, unknowing of the real truth and yet still- silently hoping. Silently rooting for his return. Going to such unimaginable lengths to prove to himself that the whole world had been wrong about Sirius Black. Trust came so easily to Remus. With so much more love than Sirius was used to. 

“He trusts you, Albus,” Sirius said at last. His mind felt cloudy. A little numb. He was so tired.

“And I trust him as well,” replied Dumbledore, his brow knitting. “Just as I trust you, Sirius. The way I hope you will trust me someday.”

And Sirius had nothing to say to this. They sat there, in silence, for a few minutes more. The sun had just begun to rise, shaded by clouds and the smoke of morning commuters.

“I’d best be going,” Dumbledore said, standing for the second time, reaching for the velvet coat so haphazardly flung over the back of his chair.

“Yes,” said Sirius, “Yes.”

He stepped hazily out towards the front door to open it for him. Dumbledore stood on the porch for several seconds, waiting for a biker across the street to pass out of view. Then he was gone, an echo of the familiar _crack_ of apparition ringing through the covered patio. Sirius shut the door behind him and stood in the foyer for a moment, staring at the wallpaper, which was beginning to crumble where it met the ceiling. He considered sleeping again, but it no longer appealed. In the other room, the fire had begun to die down.

It wasn’t until he was in the kitchen, at the icebox, clawing through half-empty boxed instant meals in search of breakfast, when  _ damn it,  _ he realized,  _ damn it, damn it, damn it,  _ because for a moment there he’d really thought he trusted the old bastard, loved him even. Nodded along to his kindness, his affirmations, as if it wasn’t through Dumbledore’s shortsightedness that he’d lost twelve years of his life to that wretched prison. Like he hadn’t been using Harry and Remus and all the rest for all his otherworldly purposes. Falling right into his niceties, just as he had been, Sirius realized with a turn of the stomach, his entire life.

_ “Damn it,” _ he said, out loud this time, and shut the icebox lid down on top of his open hand.

…

Draco wasn’t used to being bothered so early in the morning, let alone being  _ sent for,  _ but he was disrupted nevertheless, in the Slytherin Common room, by a bored-looking, babyish third-year who said that he’d been instructed to tell Draco that he had a visitor awaiting him in the clock tower courtyard.

It was six in the morning, nobody else really even awake yet besides some stragglers who had an early astronomy class at dawn, and Draco, prickly and anxious and awaiting the next full moon within the week, had not been able to sleep. He’d taken a book down to the common room, lit a small blue fire in the fireplace, but hadn’t done much reading nor relaxing. The wolfishness, it took hold in the days leading up to the moon, not just the night of. His hair stood on edge whenever someone entered a room unexpectedly. Looked up from washing his face to find his pupils fully dilated, enough to stretch his grey irises to nothing but thin, dark rings. 

And as always, he remembered nothing of the night itself. The pain of transformation and de-transformation- he knew the thought of it, but the sensation was almost dulled in his memory. September’s full moon had been the wicked reminder. And being the wolf itself? It was touch, smell, physiological only. No sight. No color. Scratching and circling and leg-biting, moments that were difficult to chronicle in his human mind.

Such a shiver came over him when the third year slipped into the common room and approached him- with the nervous confidence of someone unused to speaking to those slightly older than himself. Draco smoothed the back of his neck with one hand, gave what he hoped was a condescending look to the boy, and was told to be at the courtyard within the next ten minutes.

He wasn’t sure who would be there to visit him, although he felt sick at the possibility that it would be a Death Eater, a family member there to remind him of his responsibility- for a miserable moment his mind drifted, ridiculously, to Lord Voldemort himself. The theory didn’t quite make sense though- he’d been forced to see Professor Snape every day that week for his dosage of wolfsbane, and although he could tell the professor was trying hard not to remind him too harshly of his family’s situation, he didn’t think he would neglect to mention a visit from anybody dangerous in the coming days.

He didn’t have time to put on his school robes, but he retrieved his house tie from his room first, telling himself that if it was in fact a Death Eater, perhaps he could appease them by displaying some semblance of house loyalty, although he knew this made no true sense. It took him longer than ten minutes to reach the clock tower courtyard at his slow pace- yet another reflection of his unwillingness to meet with whoever awaited him once he arrived. 

If the courtyard hadn’t been otherwise completely abandoned, Draco would have turned the other direction and left as quickly as possible. But it was an empty, clear morning, sun just barely breaking through over the distant horizon, and Remus Lupin had spotted him instantly; and immediately, overly cheerfully, advanced towards him.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said as he approached, and Draco froze, unable to quickly conjure a reasonable excuse to exit this interaction. “I wasn’t sure you’d turn up. Thank you for meeting with me.”

Draco didn’t respond, but as Lupin drew closer, he saw something drop slightly in the man’s expression- he was taking in Draco’s fresh scars, scars that had not been present on his previously untouched face the last time they had seen each other in person. But Lupin quickly regained the slight loss of composure, brought a full smile back to the forefront, hands jammed briskly into his overcoat pockets- “Shall we walk?” 

…

“It really is beautiful out here,” Lupin said, looking out over the lake. He’d insisted they stop on the bridge for a moment, and Draco leaned cross-armed against the rails on the opposite side of the bridge while Lupin took in the scenery. “I miss it, sometimes. It’s a lucky thing-- to be able to look out at the lake like this.”

“Too bad you were sacked, right?” Draco blurted before he could stop himself, and quickly looked down toward the stony bridge floor before he had to meet Lupin’s eyes. But the ex-professor laughed- it seemed he’d taken it as an expression of sympathy rather than the biting insult that Draco’s tone had implied.

“I do miss teaching as well,” he replied, turning to look back out at the lake. “But it’s just the way things go, I suppose.”

An early-morning student passed them on the bridge- scrawny little Ravenclaw girl, hair tied up tightly with a bow. Her eyes lingered just a moment too long on Lupin; eyes that were, no doubt, trying to trace his face back to where she’d seen it once in the Daily Prophet.

“Couldn’t Dumbledore have stopped it?” Draco asked as soon as the girl had gone. A slight morning chill blew through the archways.

“I’m not sure it would have been possible,” said Lupin, and then, as though the cold wind had broken him out of some sort of trance- “Enough about me. I came here to check in on you.”

And Draco, realizing that he’d grown too comfortable, said one too many things that continued the conversation, grew quiet once again. Lupin smiled sadly at him, leaning against the other end of the bridge to mirror him. They stayed there, silently, for a while. There was a heavy cloud cover approaching from the north, beginning to cast everything in a low, greyish sort of light.

“You’ve been taking wolfsbane?” Lupin asked, resorting to the simplicity of yes or no questions.

“Yes,” Draco said. Simplicity indeed.

“And I trust that it’s helped to a certain extent? Compared to your first moon, at least.”

“Sure,” Draco said, shrugging, looking out towards the horizon. He wasn’t sure quite what else to say to Lupin, who Draco had to continue reminding himself he was meant to hate.

“I had a difficulty with the abstraction,” Lupin said suddenly, and Draco tensed, wondering if Lupin had some hidden tendency towards reading minds. “As a child, when I was first bit. The transformation itself is painful, of course, especially for a young kid, but the jumbled way the memories come back to you- it’s even more difficult somehow.”

“Like you can wake up and the past night is shuffled around like cards,” Draco said, and he saw very clearly Lupin biting back a smile.

“A bit like firewhisky, huh?” he said, chuckling, “Although I’ve never gotten drunk and woken up the next morning covered in someone else’s blood.”

With this, he faded into a more weathered expression. Began to slowly turn outwards to watch the rising sun again.

“Have you-” Draco faltered, having a difficult time selecting his words all of a sudden. “You’ve never killed someone, have you?”

This was clearly a question Remus Lupin had not been expecting. He took his hands out of his coat pockets and then, rethinking himself, put them back in. 

“This,” he said, looking at an imaginary spot of dust on the sleeve of his coat. “It’s not something you’ll have to worry about, as long as you have Professor Snape’s support, and access to wolfsbane. Which you  _ will _ . I promise.”

“But  _ have  _ you?”

“Draco,” he said, and Draco thought for a moment that he was going to leave it at that. “I honestly couldn’t tell you. I’ve woken up in all sorts of ways over the years. But killing some stranger out in the woods- it was never my main worry.”

“What was?” Draco asked, and he was curious, truly curious- it was a strange feeling. Lupin eyed him carefully.

“My biggest concern has always been,” he paused to take a breath, and Draco could tell he was deliberating exactly how much he was willing to share with the boy. “That somehow, I’ll wind up hurting somebody that I love beyond repair. And believe me, I’ve come close before. Just a few years ago, in fact. I was careless, and-”

He cut off for a moment as if to see if Draco would interrupt, but he did not, so Lupin continued.

“He put his life on the line to stop me. That’s how much he cared. Even though he knew it might kill him. I don’t ever want to be the initiator of that kind of harm ever again.”

Draco was unfamiliar with the process of expressing sympathy, but he was cut short, mouth half-open before he could even halfheartedly try. Lupin had almost immediately returned that neutral smile to his face, and it was shockingly convincing- as though Draco hadn’t asked him about the subject at all.

“But,” he said, smiling, “But, you won’t have to be concerned about this sort of thing. You’re in excellent hands with Professor Snape, even if he pretends he doesn’t care. And-”

He seemed to be approaching an insult directed towards Snape, but caught sight of Draco’s Slytherin tie and thought better of it. Instead, he leaned back against the bridge again, casually, and Draco did the same, realizing that he’d leaned in to listen better at some point in their conversation- fully invested, arms somehow having come uncrossed.

“I have one more thing that we need to talk about before returning to a more public place,” Lupin said, gesturing towards the distant courtyard which had grown crowded with a larger wave of early students. “Have you been in contact with your family, or any of their…” 

He trailed off again, but Draco knew what he meant. He re-crossed his arms. Looked upwards, and then down again. He knew what Lupin was asking of him with this. Knew that him and all the rest of Dumbledore’s people had been expecting him to turn traitor from the very beginning. And also knew, in that same pit of his stomach, that the Dark Lord awaited a similar response. A pledge of trust that he wasn’t sure he could promise to give, although he so desperately wanted to. Because he knew that even if he did return to his family, it could never, ever be the same.

“I haven’t  _ seen  _ them,” he said, and Lupin raised an eyebrow.

“Has Professor Snape given you word from them?”

Had he been told, or was he simply a good guesser? Draco was wary of giving him too much credit, but Lupin's level of insight was bordering on frightening.

“They want me to come back,” he said. A partial truth, a less violent one. The way that Draco wished things were. A family suffering in his absence- for loss of their son, not for the pressure of the Dark Lord. 

“Do you plan to?” Remus asked softly. And Draco suddenly felt horribly bitter, annoyed and sick of this man and all his right questions.

“It’s none of your business what I do,” Draco said, and he pushed off the bridge to return to the courtyard. Remus Lupin followed him back, at a safe distance, although he stopped him one final time- outside the castle gates, withdrawing a small, brown, simply wrapped package from the inner pocket of his coat.

“It’s not much,” he said, “But as a thank you. For agreeing to meet with me.”

...

Draco waited to open it until that night, back in the dormitory, curtains on his bed drawn shut. Two more, smaller packages and a folded note fell onto his lap as he ripped open the paper. He read the note first- there was no writing, only a small drawing scribbled in ink Draco recognized to be from a ballpoint pen. A little doodle of a comically wide-eyed wolf howling at the full moon. The paper itself looked old, yellowing and curled at the edges as though it had been shoved into a drawer and forgotten for a good twenty years. There was a small initial at the bottom corner of the drawing- ‘S.B.’ in patchy black ink.

The other two packages were small and rectangular- the smaller of which quickly revealed itself to be a chocolate bar, 50%, ‘ethically sourced’ printed in italics on the front and back of the wrapper. The other package, the larger of the two, turned out to be an all too familiar paperback book- Draco blanched at the title and the cover, that ridiculous romance novel he’d stolen from a muggle library,  _ Love Amongst Monsters,  _ the same book Potter had, horrifyingly, found and pestered him to take back not a week before.

A small piece of notebook paper slid out of the book’s spine as he unwrapped the book fully, and this time there was writing- a sort of tidy, cursive-adjacent script.

_ I was made aware by an anonymous source that you were in need of a replacement copy.  _

_ R.J.L. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops i'd been planning to wait another week to upload but i ended up banging out this giant monster of a chapter in a single night, so enjoy!
> 
> love all of you and your comments with all my heart, it's so fun seeing people theorizing & discussing and most importantly, hating dumbledore & snape <3


	12. Underhand Heists and Overheard Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco discovers the many resources a library can provide. Harry is unwittingly roped into a variety of schemes.

The book was on a little wooden shelf underneath the library’s back window- hardly even hidden, really- it looked barely even worthy of being in the restricted section. It was an old book, but by the clean looks of it, it had spent many decades either well-tended or having not been opened at all. In fact, it probably would have gone completely unnoticed by Draco if not for the bold, cleanly printed words on its spine:

‘ _ Lycanthropy, and its Definitive Cure’. _

He’d been in the restricted section on other business- in his bag, there was a brief note from Professor Snape permitting his entry in order to check out a book on advanced Magical Defense Techniques. He’d left the library with two books: one checked out reluctantly by Madam Pince (“There will be  _ heavy  _ prices to pay if you keep this book beyond it’s due, young man,”) and the other tucked away secretly and safely in his bag.

It was soft bound in leather, fell open easily when set down; in the past the book had clearly been flattened often along its spine. Draco didn’t dare read it in public- although it seemed Potter had not gone around with his secret as Draco had first thought, he still did not trust the prospect of prying eyes- and so he waited until classes that day were over, climbed a dense tree out by the lake where he’d used to read over the summer, sitting in the crux of two higher branches where he knew he would not be disturbed.

Unsure of what to expect, Draco allowed the book to open to a middle page which, he realized a moment later, had already been preserved by means of a bookmark. He turned the bookmark over- it was really more a parchment scrap than anything- and realized, with a start, that a small intersection of two of Hogwarts’ hallways had been carefully drawn on the back side. He recognized the entryway to the Charms classroom on one edge, and the front corner of the trophy room labelled on the other. There was a small bulleted list in tight cursive at the bottom edge of the parchment:  _ include secret passageways, mark out movement of stairs, enchant to track footsteps(?)(consult WT on possibility).  _

Setting aside the piece of parchment for a moment, Draco returned to the book page itself and realized that it was margin-noted in the same neat handwriting as the bookmark. But the text of the book itself quickly distracted from this fact, because of the header- bolded and italicized, a promise Draco hadn’t dared hope to see even a day earlier.

PROPOSED CURE FOR THE WEREWOLF CONDITION. PERMANENT.

It was a potion. Had a list of ingredients at the top of the recipe, some of which Draco recognized, most of which he didn’t (wolfberry, cerite, imp appendix, hazia root, the list went on). But even as he tried to read through, heart pounding, his eyes kept drifting back to the title’s assurance.  _ Permanent.  _ A way out. He’d suffered for months, and here it was, written out so neatly in front of him: collect the ingredients, reverse his condition, end this punishment and return to his family in honor instead of disgrace. Perhaps the Dark Lord would even reward him for his skill. Forgive the mistake he’d made. It felt like such an absurd thing to think, and yet-

Well, he was holding the potential antidote to his curse in his very hands. You couldn’t get much more absurd than that. At the bottom of the recipe was an author’s note, printed in short, colloquial sentences. ‘I’ve tested the recipe on myself,’ it said in the footnote, “And it’s proved effective in reversing even the most extreme cases of lycanthropy.’

The potion was brewed over the span of six months, as so many of the most potent concoctions often were. The preparation seemed simple enough, but the sources of many of the ingredients were extremely vague, and most of them were indicated only by those neatly written margin notes.  _ Forbidden Forest, near lake shore,  _ said one note, and then in parentheticals:  _ (Blooms in early winter. Harvest on full moon only. May have to co-opt PF for this one).  _ A whole section of ingredients was circled, and next to it was written (with a jump of Draco’s heart)  _ Found in Slughorn’s private storage room. Heist necessary? _

A couple more rereads of this list, and Draco realized that the entirety of the ingredients could be found somewhere on campus. It would take some scavenging, some sneaking around, sure, but none of that compared to what Draco knew was now within his reach to reclaim.

His mind had grown overwhelmed with the possibilities, so he paused- took a deep breath, rereading the margin notes, which had an oddly familiar shape and diction that Draco couldn’t quite place. After a moment, with his own quill, he underlined the ingredients that could be found in Slughorn’s storage room. Tonight, he decided, with a wooly rush of adrenaline. He’d get the first of it tonight. Couldn’t wait longer than that. 

Later, back in the dormitory, Draco wrote out a brewing schedule following along with the specifications of the written footnotes. If he started now, he could complete the potion by late May, leaving him just enough time to win back his favor with the Dark Lord before the end of his sixth year. Some of the ingredients he was uncertain of how he would get his hand on them, particularly those harvested on the full moon. He was uneasy to inform Professor Snape of his plan (denying himself to think about his true fear, which was that the Professor would disprove the validity of the potion entirely) and he could not think of a situation in which Blaise Zambini could be convinced to go out into the woods in the middle of the night to collect a mysterious ingredient with no explanation whatsoever. He supposed that if it came down to it ( _ Merlin,  _ was he really this short on options?) he could manipulate Potter and his crew into gathering the ingredients for him; perhaps through blackmail or a well-placed, enigmatic note. Even Remus Lupin would probably jump at the opportunity to help, although Draco feared that he would want to take some of the cure for himself- a motivation Draco himself surely would have held, were the situation reversed.

He made sure nobody saw him with the book, particularly as he read through it again inside the Slytherin dormitory. Holding it felt like a gateway to freedom from everything he’d been put through. He wouldn’t let that go so close to the end. Flipping through the other pages, most of which were a memoir of the author’s personal experience, Draco couldn’t help but wonder how the contents of the book weren’t common knowledge. Why this information was stuffed into a little shelf at the far back of the restricted section, untouched for years. He clutched the book still, even as he stole through the darkened hallways of Hogwarts that night- walking quickly and carefully towards the basement stairs: the recipe’s first order of business. 

...

“Harry, you wouldn’t mind staying behind to help clean up, would you?”

The sly way Slughorn said it, it made Harry wonder whether he’d earned a detention with the man and somehow completely forgotten about it up until this point. Amongst the clinking of silverware and shoving away of wooden chairs, Hermione caught his eye across the dining table. Both exhausted from the lengthy Slug Club meeting  _ (how was it midnight already?!)  _ Harry knew she was offering to stay behind to keep him company. But he thought of Ron, waiting alone and a little bit jealous in the Gryffindor common room for them to return, so he gave her a noncommittal shrug and a smile. Hermione still seemed slightly concerned with leaving Harry behind, and she opened her mouth to speak but before she could get a word out, Cormac McLaggen approached her from the side, booming about some class assignment, and before Harry knew it both of them were out of the room, Hermione looking apologetically back at Harry over her shoulder as Cormac prattled on. Blaise Zabini was the last to leave, pulling on his coat and smirking good-naturedly at Harry as if to tease him for the job he’d been stuck with.

“Excellent night,” Slughorn said with a clap of his hands as the door shut for the final time, leaving the classroom-turned-dining-room empty. “Stack the dishes, Harry, we have much to discuss.”

A little circumspect, Harry pulled out his wand and started clearing the table, letting the dishes stack themselves into tidy piles in the center. They’d had shepherd's pie, à la an old Slughorn family recipe (or so the professor insisted, when Hermione had commented that it had a very similar taste and consistency to the way the dish was prepared in the Hogwarts kitchens) followed by a platter of miniature egg custard tarts, the leftovers of which Slughorn was stacking into a small box.

“So, Harry, I understand you’ve been having private lessons with Dumbledore this year,” Slughorn said, carrying the box back to his office in the other room. “How’s that gone?”

“Er- it’s been fine, I suppose,” Harry called back to him, unsure of how much of his lessons Dumbledore would want him to share with the professor.

“You truly are an excellent student,  _ excellent,  _ I say, and I’m pleased to know that Dumbledore’s finally taking advantage of that.”

“Thank you, professor-”

“I mean, with your skill for potions- I’m sure many fine wizarding establishments would offer excellent internships for your talents alone.”

Harry nodded along affirmatively, a bit guilty, thinking of the potions book that was currently in his book bag slung over a chair.  _ Property of the Half Blood Prince.  _ He wouldn’t be anywhere in that class without its tricky little margin notes and recipe corrections. 

Slughorn returned to the room and smiled widely when he saw that Harry had neatly stacked all the dishes from that night’s meeting. With a flick of his wand, the plates and silverware bobbed through the air towards the potions classroom sink, where they began to wash and dry themselves.

“A shame Ms. Weasley couldn’t make it to dinner this evening,” he said as the plates counted themselves out- six in total, one less than usual. Ginny had been absent- “Said she was feeling ill, I hope she’s alright,” Hermione had explained to Harry over dinner. Slughorn eyed Harry for a moment in a pensive manner. “The two of you would make an excellent team, I think.”

“Yeah, probably,” Harry said, misinterpreting Slughorn’s tone as he crossed to the sink counter to start putting away the dishes. He looked up and saw the professor still facing him with a mischievous smirk. “Oh,  _ no,  _ professor, not like that, though, I’ve never-”

“Ms. Granger then?” Slughorn pressed, and Harry flushed in surprise, then laughed shortly, which seemed to surprise Slughorn. 

“Hermione? She’s my best friend, we’re not...” his mind turned to Ron, whose reaction to the possibility of Hermione and Harry dating would most likely be unfathomable.

“Well,” said Slughorn, with another guileful smirk, “I’ll stop pressing the matter.”

Harry laughed again, a bit uncomfortably, and began to turn back towards the counter so that he could finish the dishes as quickly as possible and then find some excuse to leave for bed. 

At least, he would have, if his eyes had not caught on Draco Malfoy, standing in the doorway like a deer in the headlights.

Harry’s eyes widened, but Slughorn did not seem to notice, having preoccupied himself with adjusting the floral arrangement at the center of the dining table. Draco did not leave the doorway even after seeing that Harry had noticed him, but held up one desperate finger to his lips, pleading silently for Harry not to alert Slughorn of his presence.

“Professor,” said Harry slowly, watching as Draco began to creep, light-footed, into the open space of the classroom. “Would you like to hear about the sort of thing I’ve been studying with Dumbledore?”

Slughorn snapped to attention at once, looking delighted that Harry was offering this information to him.

“Of course, Harry, of  _ course,  _ I thought you’d never tell!”

“Right,” said Harry, taking what he hoped were nonchalant steps to the side to draw Slughorn’s attention away as Draco crept along the back wall of the classroom. “Well, we’ve been looking into different memories, see…”

_ “Memories,”  _ Slughorn said, “How  _ interesting!  _ Tell me more.”

“Sort of- well, Dumbledore’s showed me some of his memories, and ones from… er, other people,” he watched as Draco nearly tripped over the open door of a lower potions cabinet, taking in a sharp breath as he struggled for balance. Thankfully, Slughorn did not seem to notice the sound, but he looked quizzically at Harry’s apparent discomfort.

Harry took several more steps to the side, and Slughorn turned to look at him, all the while behind his back, Draco was carefully reaching for the doorknob to Slughorn’s private storage room.

“We look at them through a-” the handle rattled in place- it was locked- he saw Draco mouth curses and then reach into one pocket for his wand. “Through a pensieve. Where you jump in and and-”

He watched Draco attempt to unlock the door with a nonverbal spell, but apparently with some difficulty- as he kept casting the spell and then trying the handle over and over again to no avail. Harry wondered if he should just tell Slughorn to turn around and put an end to this. But then he’d never get to figure out what on  _ earth  _ Draco was up to. 

“Uh, Dumbledore showed me a particular memory of his,” Harry said, returning to making direct eye contact with Slughorn, trying to nonchalantly reach for his wand, which he had set on the counter. “He showed me the day he first met Voldemort.”

Harry hoped desperately that he was not telling the professor too much about what was meant to be classified information, but the words surprised Slughorn so much that Harry was able to take the opportunity, rest one hand on his wand, and quickly cast an unlocking spell on the door, which opened in Draco’s hands. Draco gave him a bewildered, thankful glance, and then slipped into the private storage room, closing the door softly behind him. 

“So that’s what he’s been doing,” Slughorn said quietly, taking a seat on the edge of the round wooden dining table. “Sleuthing through the past to learn more about the enemy, I take it?”

“I guess you could say that,” Harry said, breathing a short sigh of relief at the sight of the closed door. He went back to the dishes, putting them away in a manner that he hoped expressed that nothing was amiss. “But mostly he’s just teaching me how to use that kind of memory magic, I think.”

Slughorn looked increasingly unwell the longer Harry talked, and Harry tried to place what part of his words had struck a nerve with the professor.

“Just the sort of thing old Albus would do,” Slughorn muttered, seemingly to himself now, resting the side of his head in one hand. “Probably why he asked me back after all these years. Just wanted to-”

He was cut off by a soft crash from behind the storage room door, and this time it did not go unnoticed by Slughorn, who stood and looked over his shoulder curiously.

“Did you hear that?” he said, cupping one ear as though to listen closely.

“No,” said Harry, trying to make his face look innocent.

“I’m almost certain that I heard a noise, coming from the-”

“Is there something you’re keeping secret from Dumbledore, Professor Slughorn?”

It had the effect that Harry had desperately hoped for. Slughorn turned wildly back towards him, almost frighteningly quick.

“Did he send you here to ask me that?” he snapped, glaring at Harry suspiciously.

“No!” said Harry, raising his arms defensively just as the storage room door began to creak open again, Draco peering out to see if the coast was clear. “He hasn’t said anything about it, I promise, it’s just that-”

“Just that  _ what,  _ boy?” Slughorn said, advancing towards Harry as Draco crossed the classroom behind the two of them, intent on escaping but also eyeing the exchange carefully. Draco’s bag, slung over one shoulder, was bulging slightly as though full of glass bottles, and Harry could see him managing his balance so that they didn’t clink against each other. “He’s using you, just like he always does, using you to get information out of me, well tell him that he’s gone to the wrong man! I’m not speaking!”

“He hasn’t sent me after you!” Harry insisted, backing into the sink counter, seeking ways to calm the furious man down.

“Don’t come asking me questions again,” said Slughorn, turning away from Harry just as Draco slipped up the door and up the basement stairs. “And you’d better tell Albus Dumbledore to leave me alone, too.” 

Bewildered, Harry circled around to the table to collect his things. Slughorn was still watching him with residual anger flashing over his face.

“Halloween dinner party on Thursday,” he said with forced casualty, watching Harry collect his bag and coat. “Don’t be late. Bring a plus one if you’d like.”

Harry took this as a very definitive request for him to leave. He felt Slughorn’s eyes on him as he silently left the classroom, returning utterly disoriented into the shadowy staircase that led back up to the ground floor.

It was cold even inside Hogwarts at this time of night, the stone brick halls a far distance from the fires that still burned in the common rooms and many of the teacher’s quarters. The magical central heating system often didn’t come on until mid-November at least, and Harry felt the chill in his bones as he stepped out at the very top of the stairs.

Slughorn had not followed him or closed up the classroom in any manner, and Harry was not keen to be there when Slughorn discovered the items missing from his supply cupboard. More importantly, Harry was still reeling from Slughorn’s sudden outburst- so strongly juxtaposed with the kind manner he’d treated Harry with in the past. Did Slughorn have some sort of grievance with Dumbledore? The very mention of memories had seemingly been enough to set him off.

Harry pulled his coat around himself tightly, casting a thin shadow across the blue light that was fading in through the tall hallway windows. He could see a couple stars outside through the clouds, and the waxing moon, near the upper threshold of the window’s glass. A mass of clouds blew over it, and the light inside the castle dimmed slightly.

“Potter. A word.”

Across the hall, arms crossed while waiting in a shallow alcove, was Malfoy. He was whispering, but the empty halls carried his voice in a resonating echo. Harry checked a final time that Slughorn had not followed him up the stairs and then stalked hurriedly towards Malfoy, still shivering a bit from the cold.

“Malfoy, what were you  _ doing  _ in there?”

He eyed Malfoy’s bag, which was still full of whatever the boy had stolen from Slughorn’s supply closet.

“I thought you would have realized by now that I don’t-”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t owe me information. I get it. You don’t have to tell me again.” 

Malfoy smiled, surprised, not having anticipated that Harry would relent so easily. Then he seemed to gain some new self-awareness and his face quickly set again. He clutched his bag tightly, pale bony hands holding it carefully aside like he expected Harry to reach out and steal it at any moment.

“Don’t tell anyone what you saw tonight. Obviously.”

Harry didn’t reply. Shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and waited for Draco to march away hurriedly like he usually did. It took a second for him to realize that Draco was eyeing him curiously from the alcove. Harry couldn’t tell whether he was formulating a question or awaiting an answer. 

“Slughorn seemed awfully mad, huh?”

Malfoy was smirking a little gleefully, and Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, gathering his coat around himself to walk back to the dormitories. He was probably just happy to have something to hold over Harry’s head for once.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Malfoy,” he said, raising his voice slightly. “But I’m  _ inclined _ to say that it’s none of your business.”

Draco, still in the alcove, had suddenly blanched. 

“Quiet,” he said, hushed and urgently, tilting his head forward like he was listening for a faraway noise. “Do you hear...” 

When Harry strained his ears, he could hear the soft approach of footsteps echoing through the halls a couple hundred feet away. A white light bobbed somewhere in the near distance, getting brighter.

“What’s the problem,” Harry hissed, looking back at Malfoy who had stepped out into the hall, glancing frantically around for a place to run to. “We’re sixth year, it’s fine to be out late, there’s no reason to be sneaking about like-” 

“My  _ bag  _ is full of stolen potion ingredients, Potter!” he whispered hurriedly, trying the handle of a slim broom closet door. It was opportunely unlocked, and Draco peered inside at the cramped space- dusty and cobwebbed. “If it was a professor, or worse, Filch of all people, they’d want to search my things and-”

Harry glanced over his shoulder, watching the light bob closer, its holder about to round the corner into the hall. 

“Yeah, well,  _ I  _ don’t have anything to worry about!”

“You’re kidding me, Potter,” Draco said, stepping tentatively into the little closet, trying to avoid getting cobwebs on his oxfords. “Everyone knows you can’t lie to save your own ass. You almost got me caught with Slughorn, like, five minutes ago-”

“ _ I  _ almost got you caught,” Harry hissed, the light from the other hall growing brighter and brighter. “ _ Me? _ You were being so damn loud trying to sneak around, I had to cover for you!”

“You’re about to get me caught again,” Draco said, under his breath, as hushed voices made themselves audible at the end of the adjacent corridor. “ _ God,  _ I’m sick of you getting in the way.”

Harry felt a catch on his sleeve, and was one second too late to protest before he felt himself being yanked into the closet by Draco, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind them as the both of them stumbled up against the closet’s shallow back wall in the dark.

“What the  _ hell-”  _ Harry started, but was cut short by a cold hand clamped tightly over his mouth. Underneath the door, a white light flickered into view accompanied by footsteps approaching from outside. Draco’s other arm, which had been slightly raised in panic, settled down to grip Harry’s shoulder as though he was holding the boy hostage. His other hand tightened over Harry’s mouth. Only a few centimeter’s distance separated them- Harry could feel where their left shoulders brushed, the pressure of a shoe touching the back of his heel.

Voices came into clarity as the light got brighter. They were immediately recognizable, confirmed even more certainly as Harry leaned forward (taking Draco’s hand with him) to peer through the closet door handle’s keyhole. Dumbledore and Snape, walking side-by-side, talking urgently in a hushed manner. Supposedly unaware of the occupied closet just a few feet away from them.

“...the ambassador missions,” Dumbledore was saying, peering straight ahead into the hall through his glasses. “Remus informed me he was having poor luck.”

Harry’s heart skipped a couple beats, and then a few more. He felt Draco’s hand fall off of his mouth in surprise, coming to rest against Harry’s collarbone. 

“I have some small knowledge of the details,” Snape replied, thickly, in an oily way like he was trying to avoid saying the wrong thing to Dumbledore. “We spoke earlier this week. He probably would have been more communicative to  _ you.” _

_ “So that’s why he was here, at the school,” _ Draco breathed just barely audibly, causing some of the hair over Harry’s ear to flutter.

_ “Remus was here?” _ Harry responded, and Draco, seeming to have remembered where he was, clamped his hand over Harry’s mouth again.

“I needed the two of you in particular to speak, Severus,” said Dumbledore in that chastising way that any Hogwarts student was familiar with. “If we’re ever to attempt using wolfsbane as a mode of negotiation, your assistance will be essential.”

Draco tensed at the mention of wolfsbane. Harry felt a tug as Draco attempted to back away to process what he was hearing, but in the shallow closet there wasn’t exactly anywhere else to go.

“I’ve said this before, Albus. There’s no possibility that I can produce wolfsbane on such a scale. It’s a tall order just to manage the dosages for two-”

“And yet-” Dumbledore said, a slight sharpness rising into his voice that Harry had never heard before. “It has to be done. But you know what we’ve learned since the summer. Know what Greyback has become capable of- the sort of capabilities that his followers, at present, would be eager to learn.”

They were drawing away from the closet door now, the light fading softly, faces no longer in view.

“This is despicable,” said Snape, a little muffled as they walked away. “To think… what might happen to Draco, if what we hear is true…”

“Only time will tell, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “There’s every possibility that-”

And they rounded another corner, and the corridor fell silent. Left in darkness again, Harry felt both of Draco’s hands slide off his sweater, a sudden absence of cold in the dusty closet. Harry turned around with some effort- a stabilizing hand on one wall, to see that Draco had slid to a sitting position against the back wall, bag of potion ingredients clinking gently as he fell. Harry faced him, and Draco crossed his arms, looking upwards to the side, faux-brightly, in a refusal to meet Harry’s eyes. The toes of their shoes were touching due to the proximity.

“I don’t suppose you knew what they were talking about,” Draco said at last, tracing a spiral into the dusty floor with one finger. Harry, a little unsure of himself, crouched down, leaning with his back to the closed door.

“Not really,” he said, pulling his hands into his sweater sleeves to conserve warmth. “I mean, I knew that Remus was speaking with some of Greyback’s followers. But not… not the special capabilities thing. What did he mean by that?”

“I don’t  _ know!”  _ Draco said, throwing his arms up in frustration and very nearly hitting Harry in the face. “I don’t know. Nobody tells me anything,  _ anything  _ it feels like, unless it’s somehow convenient for me to hear it.”

“Huh.” Harry said, and then laughed, and then felt slightly guilty when he saw the horrified, offended, second-guessing look on Draco’s face. “Huh.”

_ “What,”  _ Draco spat, and then seemed all of a sudden to grow very aware of the situation he was in. His shoes pushed unintentionally into Harry’s legs as he tried to pull himself to his feet. “Shit, this is pathetic. Get out of my way, Potter, I’m leaving.”

“No,” Harry said, laughing again, damn it, using the door handle to help himself stand up in the cramped space. “No, I’m sorry. Nobody tells me anything either. I was laughing because- well, I wasn’t laughing at  _ you.” _

Draco was laughing now, incredulously, still a little pale in the face, just barely visible in the gritty darkness.

_ “You?  _ You mean to tell me that  _ you,  _ Everyone’s Favorite Chosen One, Harry Potter Himself, is completely alone and in the dark? Trust me-”

“That’s not-”

“-You’re a lot better off than I am.”

Harry saw Draco’s hand fall upon the arm he knew was marked with the healed punctures and bruisings of Greyback’s teeth. 

“Malfoy?”

“What?”

“What  _ were  _ you stealing from Slughorn’s classroom, anyway?”

Draco hoisted the bag onto his shoulder with another sound of clinking and rattling. He shifted his feet uncomfortably, as if trying to decide how to respond.

“I found a cure,” he said, finally. He took a moment to register Harry’s confused expression. “For- a  _ werewolf cure,  _ idiot!”

Harry nodded along in realization.

“It was in a book in the restricted section, and I don’t know if it’ll actually work,” Draco continued. “But I have to try, right? I got the first ingredients myself, but there’s some that I won’t be able to get. Some of the ingredients have to be harvested on the full moon, you know- but I’ll figure out a way. I have to fix this mess I’ve gotten myself into.”

He was rambling now, letting some internal narrative carry him away, but Harry listened intently, unable to distract himself from the fact that it was  _ Malfoy  _ who was talking to him, Draco Malfoy, who had all but despised him for the six-odd years they’d known each other.

“Maybe I can help,” Harry said, because what else was he good for, really? 

“Uh-”

“You know, with collecting the ingredients you can’t get. On full moons, that sort of thing?”

“Why,” Draco said, and it wasn’t a question, not really. He’d turned his eyes (dark grey, kind of glassy) directly towards Harry and was studying him intensely, like a specimen at a museum.

“Because I can,” Harry shrugged, realizing abruptly, once again, their proximity to each other, and the warmth that had begun to build in the small closet. “Hey, it’s probably safe to leave, huh?”

Draco snapped back to reality like a broken wire.

“Right.  _ Right,  _ oh my god. Alright, we’re leaving. Now. Get out of my face.”

Harry, laughing, obliging, leaned onto the door, pushing it back open into the empty hall. The cold air rushed in all of a sudden, and it was like they hadn’t been so close at all, stretching out their limbs, breathing in fresh air several feet apart in the wash of moonlight.

“You really didn’t tell anyone, did you?” Draco said, gathering his things and making to walk down the corridor, away towards the Slytherin common room. “About everything that happened to me.”

“No,” Harry said. “Didn’t feel right to.”

“Huh,” Draco mused, and maybe even smiled a bit, and then he was gone, rounding the corner. Harry listened to his footsteps fade until they were gone entirely, shivering through his sweater, unable to ignore the sense that something (impossibly, cosmically, fundamentally) had shifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sneaking around?? robbing potions classrooms? stealing from libraries? eavesdropping in closets? bonding moments????? i really cranked up the hijinks factor in this chapter (and also the plot factor holy shit, i hope this isn’t plot overload) anyways hope you enjoy!!


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